


The Waiting Game

by PoetKnowit20



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Complete, Denial, Eventual Smut, F/M, Feelings, Friends to Lovers, I'm quite proud of this, M/M, Romance, Season/Series 02 Spoilers, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Slashy, Slow Build, cases
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-27
Updated: 2013-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-17 03:42:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 37,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoetKnowit20/pseuds/PoetKnowit20
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year has passed and John has finally started trying to move on with his life...he has a chance at being happy but Sherlock comes home and everything changes. Their friendship can never be what it was but perhaps it was never meant to stay that way.. (Awful at summaries - Give it a go! I promise it's not naff!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have written up to 13 chapters and will be updating every couple of days. This is slash...just to be clear, and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I have enjoyed writing it. So here is chapter 1...

John wakes with a jolt. "SHERLOCK!" he screams.

His breaths are deep and shuddering as he clutches at his bed sheets. His shirt is damp with sweat and tears unwillingly fill his eyes. It was the same dream again. The same dream he has been having since he had seen Sherlock fall. The same terrible image of Sherlock's body, cold and bloody, painting its way across his eyelids every time he tries to sleep. It has been one year since that life altering moment. When Sherlock fell, hitting the ground with a sickening thud and everything had simply stopped. Sherlock had gone from his life as quick as he had entered it. 

John leans his head back on the pillow and squeezes his eyes shut trying in vain to force that day from his mind. He wants to try to find whatever part of his brain is still holding onto Sherlock. To that last conversation, those last few words and scrape them from his mind.

"This phone call…it's my note. It's what people do don't they…leave a note?" … He can still recall the way his stomach had dropped in that sickening way. The way Sherlock's voice had cracked and had been more broken than he had ever heard it. He had refused to understand what Sherlock meant…

"Goodbye John…"

Shudders rack his body as he finally allows himself to quietly sob into his hands. He had been so alone before that he had thought he would be alright. That eventually his life would settle into the same pattern of ordinary days as it had been before. But Sherlock had changed him. He often found himself trying to analyse people the way Sherlock had. He kept trying to 'see' and observe; anything to keep Sherlock with him. Anything to keep Sherlock alive. At Sherlock's grave, he had begged him not to be dead. To come back to him.

" But, please, there's just one more thing...one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be... dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this".

But he never got any reply, the black stone slab just stood there in the earth so cold and still; so unlike the man it belonged to. But he still came every day after work, as if perhaps one evening he would find the slab missing and Sherlock stood in its place. In the beginning he had tried to live at his own apartment for a while but he had found it didn't matter where he was; Sherlock was still everywhere. It was only a few months before he moved back to 221B Baker Street. Mrs Hudson had met him at the door with a sad knowing look in her eyes and simply handed him the keys.

"…How have you been dear?" 

He remembers her asking; to which he had smiled tightly and answered with the usual 'I've been fine'. Just talking with her had brought back so many memories so did the flat. But it was home. He had moved his belongings back into the flat (which took little over an hour as he didn't have that much to begin with) and had sat in his chair. It was hard, to sit there, hearing the silence knowing that Sherlock wouldn't come bounding in with those longs legs his, covered in pig's blood or whatever else he had managed to get submerged in. But at least he here, he could be allowed to relive those memories; to grieve and to maybe finally accept reality. That Sherlock was really gone. Sometimes he found himself wishing he hadn't done what Sherlock had told him and ran into that building as fast as his legs would carry him and maybe…just maybe he could have…he shook his head trying to clear his thoughts.

He glares at his alarm clock; reading the red numbers that stand out against the black plastic '4:00am'.There wasn't any way he was going to be able to go back to sleep now. Frost clings bleakly to his window and the air bites into his skin with cold teeth. Sighing heavily he decides he may as well get up, pulls back the covers and gets out of bed. His damn leg is stiff again but he refuses to use his cane. His therapist had said it was because of the shock…he grimaces at the memory, even he knew that, it still didn't help him. She had been trying to get him to open up about Sherlock, but he still couldn't bring himself to talk about him, even after a year it was still as painful as the day it had occurred. He received weekly calls from Harry and even Lestrade would call him now and then making sure he was alright which meant a great deal to him. Reporters and journalists had come to his door in the few months afterwards trying to get him to 'give them the dirt' about the fake Sherlock who had tricked John. However after one of them had been ushered from his door with a fist to his face; they had seemed to get the message that all he wanted was to be left alone. He refused then and refuses now to believe that Sherlock was anything short of the real deal. He smiles slightly at the memories swirling around his mind. Sherlock unreasonably ordering him to get things for him…

"Pass me my phone"… "Where is it?"…"Jacket"...

Or shooting the wall because he had no case to work; throwing himself on the sofa like a petulant child having a tantrum.

"BORED!" Bang"..."BORED!" Bang!

And his mind…How quickly his mind had worked, seeking out every detail like a dog relentlessly following a scent…no…no-one could fake that kind of brilliance. So he had kept quiet to the world. And soon the newspapers had got bored (or rather Mycroft had hushed them up) and the world had forgotten Sherlock Holmes.

Rubbing a hand over his face, he slips off his t-shirt and boxers in the bathroom. He catches a look at himself in the mirror. He notices that he has lost some weight and the muscles in his upper body have become more developed. Exercise had become a great way to forget. To burn away all that anger and despair by pushing his body past its limits and falling into a dreamless sleep brought on by sheer exhaustion. He looks healthier than he ever has. But that isn't what stands out to him. It's the dead look of his eyes, how tired and empty they seem to him. He stares into them a little longer before looking away and steps under the hot spray of the shower. He presses both palms flat against the cold surface of the tiles, fingers splayed and tense. Hot water cascades down the tight muscles of his back and he wills his mind to forget and heart to mend. He wills the shower to wash away his grief as diligently as it washes away the dirt from his skin. He tilts his head up under the shower and lets the water hit his face, mouth slightly open, mentally preparing himself for another day behind a desk. Another monotonous day of treating patients and engaging endless small talk with patients and co-workers. Nothing ever happens to me, he thinks, a wistful smile touching the corners of his lips. Not anymore.

There were thousands of variables that still had to be considered. John.

So many possible threats that still remained. John.

Endless choices he could make with thousands of various outcomes that needed to be organised and carefully selected. John.

Growling in frustration he jumps from his seat, clasps his hands behind his back and begins to pace the room. John keeps buzzing in the back of his mind like white noise. It is loud and annoying. He cannot escape from the memories of the man who had inexplicably become so very important in his life. At first glance the short blonde solider with the psychosomatic limp and alcoholic sister had appeared as unremarkable as every other person in the world. He was just another square on the global chessboard; as unnoticeable as air. Until he had stopped, had seen and observed. He realised that air was what sustained him, was what gave him life; a solid and unmovable presence that was everywhere. That was what John had become to him. It was essential to his plans that he remain focused and objective. And yet his mind always travelled back to the same subject. His death…everything… was required to keep John safe; to keep everyone he cared for safe. This past year he had been tracking down the remaining members of Moriaty's web. One by one had been capturing them and putting them in the darkest holes that the world possessed.

What he had not expected was all these feelings to disturb him. He had expected to experience emotions obviously. He was still human; only a man. But for them to be as unyielding and pervasive as they were. To be still so strong, if not stronger, even after a year… was…unpleasant. He missed John. He missed the way John would glare and complain about various body parts in the fridge or how they were always out of milk. Although oddly enough he always seemed more perturbed by the latter than former. He missed being surprised by John. Despite his obviously average intelligence he still never failed to surprise him with his unwavering loyalty or compassion. He missed the compliments he would receive after he had deduced something so painfully simple, watching the way John's face would always light up in a delighted amazement. He had always liked that look on John; the carefree smile that gave him that ageless look and a happy hop in his step. He never saw John smile now.

Occasionally, when his resolve weakened, he would go to the cemetery when he knew John would be there and just watch him. Observe the scene before him; take everything in. Yesterday he had seen the sunken look John's cheeks had taken and the bruises around his eyes. They told him that he had lost over 5 pounds and that he had not been sleeping well for several weeks. The way his jumper outlined around new lines of muscle told him he had been exercising more. The way his stride was slightly stuttered told him that John's leg had been troubling him. The way he cried, silent and stiff, in the way only a solider told him that his absence still caused John pain.

Sherlock had watched John trace, almost reverently, his fingers over the black slab. It made his chest ache and his eyes sting, his body betraying his mind. He wished more than anything that he could have the freedom to run over to John and grab those fingers. To grip them tightly and tell him that everything was going to be fine, that he was alive and that he wasn't alone. That eventually he would come back for him. His skin had tingled with the need to go to John but he left; he always left.

He takes a deep breath through his nose, eyes closed, calming his mind. He sits back down again, ignoring the chill of black leather against his spine and focuses on the task at hand. He is so close now…he cannot risk everything he has worked for, risk John's life, just to offer him some comfort. No matter how much pain it caused John or him. He could wait; he had to wait for John. Sherlock only hopes that when he does finally return that John will understand. That he will still want Sherlock in his life. Still be his only friend. Still be his John.

He needed to go home. Soon.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Working hard over to bring the resolution that us Sherlock fans deserve!!! Hope you like!

John spins around in his office chair balancing a pencil between his scrunched up nose and upper lip. He doesn't have any more patients this afternoon and although he has some paper work left over he is seriously debating leaving early. He has been working here for more than half a year now. It is a small clinic with grey walls, tired staff and obscure art hanging randomly about the building. He had been quite fortunate to get a job here; not that he had to worry about rent. Mrs Hudson had been overly kind to him and charged him a ridiculously low amount. She had told him that having him come home was more than enough payment for her. She had also naturally refused him when he had offered her more. Putting his feet on the desk he watches the sky dimming as the sun begins to slowly set; dappling the clouds in vibrant ambers and reds. John is restless. He looks down at his hands which are trembling slightly; clenching them into fists and stretching them back out again.

A loud rap on his door startles him, he takes his feet off the desk and sits up properly flinging the pencil on the desk.

"Come in" he says straightening his coat in an attempt to appear more professional. Beverly, one of the older nurses, pokes her head through the door. Her watery blue eyes and furrowed silver eyebrows are looking at him at in scrutiny. John feels himself squirm slightly under her surprisingly powerful gaze trying to appear as normal as possible and not like he had been lounging around with his feet on the desk.

"Doctor Watson" she says her voice is clipped and has a slight Scottish lilt to it. "If you aren't too busy. Dr Marshall was wondering if you would see to his last patient? He's been called away, family emergency".

John decides to pointedly ignore the way she had said 'busy' hoping that whatever emergency Dr Marshall had been called away for wasn't too serious. He nods. "Of course. Send them in".

She holds the door open and lets the patient in. John rearranges his desk and looks up to see a beautiful woman with pale green eyes and long blonde hair enter the room. He feels a smile spread across his face as he greets her and feels an excited tingle up his spine when she returns his with a dazzling one of her own.

"Please sit down Mrs…?" he gestures to the chair.

"Miss…Morstan, but please call me Mary." she replies while he tries not to appear too happy when he discovers she isn't married.

"It's nice to meet you, Mary. So, what can I do for you today?" he asks feeling a slight bubble of pride from the way she blushes slightly when he uses her first name.

"Well I…" she begins but is stopped by a long stream of coughing and hacking that looks very painful. Chest infection John thinks; his mind focusing on the task at hand.

"I think that answers my question… " he says placing the cool end of the stereoscope against her chest. "Take a deep breath in…and now out. In… and out for me again". He listens carefully before he nods and meets her eyes for a moment.

"Well Mary. It seems that you've got a rather nasty chest infection." He says writing out a prescription and handing it to her. "Take this to reception and they'll give you some antibiotics that should hopefully clear that up."

More coughing. "Thank you Dr. Watson" she says her voice a little hoarse and a grateful look on her face.

"John, please" he answers smiling. Even ill she still manages to look amazing, he thinks. She's petite, has a kind face and a nice smile to boot; just his type.

"Thank you… John. " she replies, they both sit there looking at each other and smiling, until she starts to get up.

"Erm… Mary I know this might be a bit sudden but would you like to, maybe, get coffee sometime?"

She grins at him and her voice is almost teasing "I thought that doctors weren't allowed to date their patients?"

"Well, lucky for me, that technically you are Doctor Marshall's patient then." he answers cheekily.

She ducks her head down; trying to hide the pink tinge to her cheeks and smiles. She takes a card from her bag and hands it to him. Then with one last smile she leaves, with him grinning stupidly at the card in his hand feeling pretty pleased that he hadn't left early after all. Perhaps things are finally looking up after all…he thinks. He hadn't thought about Sherlock once. Although it was hardly surprising; there couldn't be two people more different. She was petite and slender. While Sherlock had been tall and broad. Bright blue eyes for pale green and jet black curls for straight blonde hair. Although why he was comparing them in the first place he hadn't a clue. He frowns slightly for an entire…he checks his wrist watch…20 minutes. For a whole 20 minutes he had forgotten Sherlock. For some reason that unsettles something in him and makes his stomach tighten unpleasantly. He collects his things and leaves work, making his way to the cemetery, as if looking at Sherlock's grave will somehow appease his uneasy feelings.

Standing there in the cold looking at Sherlock's grave he realises that he feels guilty. He never wants to forget Sherlock; he was his best friend. He doesn't think he will ever share a friendship with anyone else like the one he had shared with Sherlock. And to have forgotten him even for such a brief time meant he was moving on and that honestly scared him. Moving on meant leaving Sherlock Holmes behind and he wasn't so sure he could do that. He left feeling even more unsettled and Mary's card feeling heavy in his pocket.

Soon a couple of months had passed and John and Mary had been on quite a few dates since then. He found out that she is a teacher, no family in England and that she had been engaged once before but her fiancée had died. Over these past few months he had come to greatly enjoy her company. Not just because she was a wonderful person but because she understood what it was like to lose someone close to you. When John had told her she had simply listened and comforted him. John had begun to think that his relationship Mary could turn serious very soon. But as always life seemed determined to ruin everything.

He lies in bed panting, red rimmed eyes and Sherlock's name on his lips. It had been a particularly horrible nightmare. It had been him who had pushed Sherlock from the roof and stood over his bloody corpse watching Sherlock's lips bubbling with blood and tears fall from dead glassy eyes. He runs a hand through his damp hair, ever since he had started seeing Mary his nightmares had been getting worse. His therapist had said that he was experiencing guilt over being happy and moving on…something about survivors' guilt. She had told him to try and confront his emotions and talk about them with Mary. But it wasn't something he was willing to do. He had never been very good at trusting people although with Sherlock it had been something that had happened almost instantly. He and Mary had been growing closer, he felt happy and comfortable around her but he wasn't sure he could tell her everything that had happened. Part of him still clung onto the hope that maybe Sherlock would come bounding in stating that it was all just an experiment or just an extremely long nap. And that part, no matter how small he argued it to be, seemed reluctant to let John be happy with what he had; always longing for a life of danger and excitement. A life where Sherlock and he would solve crimes, he would blog about it and Sherlock would forget his pants.

Mary had offered to come with the cemetery with him tomorrow or glancing at his clock...today. She had told him it had been a while since she had visited her fiancee, Daniel, and thought that it would be good to go together. He had looked at the hopeful look on her face and found he could do nothing but agree. He had smiled at her and said that was a lovely idea but somewhere deep inside him had wanted to tell her no. For a year he had visited Sherlock's grave alone sharing quiet conversations and silent tears. For a year he had never gone with anyone else and never broken his routine of visiting. He knew Mary meant well but part of him had still felt something distinctly wrong about it. But maybe it would be good for him to go with her, maybe it would finally help him open up about Sherlock and help his nightmares.

Sherlock glares murderously over at his grave where now two people stood. One familiar and wanted; the other most definitely not. He had watched John enter the cemetery at his usual time and stand over his grave; a scene that in some bizarre way often soothed him. A reminder of everything he strived to protect. But today John stands there with his arm around some woman, her arm rubbing soothing circles against his lower back as he mutters quietly to her. No doubt regaling her with a tale from their numerous adventures. Sherlock begins to relentlessly scour every inch of her for information like a starving man searching for scraps. Ink on her sleeve, a textbook poking out of her bag and her general appearance suggested that she most likely was a teacher. She was small, around 5'3 and was what social convention would call "pretty". Doubtless she had attracted John with little trouble at all considering his previous girlfriends; she was what other people would call "his type". Sherlock observes a little longer. There is nothing else worth noting. She is unremarkable. Nothing mysterious or suspicious to her; she is predictably dull. However Sherlock finds that he is still… disturbed...by her presence.

Of course he expected John to dating someone. John had proven to be surprisingly popular man. But the world of dating was irrelevant data. Whatever reason women found John appealing; he had deleted it. However the fact that they are here together indicates the level of their relationship greatly surpasses all of John's previous relationships. He leans forward, fingers pressed together and eyes surveying carefully. The close manner in which they held each other indicated that they were most likely physically as well as emotionally intimate. Sherlock, in any other situation, would have been bemused that John was seriously considering her as a long term partner. But that he was meant so many more things than just the obvious. It meant that eventually John would move out of 221B. Eventually he would stop visiting his grave; maybe coming once every so often. Eventually Sherlock would become nothing more but a memory in John's mind. He scoffs at the idea that John would willingly forget Sherlock, it's unthinkable and preposterous. He looks up to see John smiling fondly at the woman and they walk off together hand in hand. Sherlock's stomach drops slightly at John's smile and his mouth feels oddly dry; perhaps he was slightly dehydrated. After a few moments of careful deliberation he decides the bizarre feeling in his stomach was due to boredom. He pulls out his mobile and sends a text.

SH: I need this wrapping up soon. I'm getting BORED.

MH: BORED. Of course… And this would have nothing to do with the appearance of the very lovely Mary Morstan?

Mycroft had been diligently helping Sherlock whenever he could. Sherlock suspects it was his way of trying to repair the part he ultimately played in causing his downfall. In addition to the informants Sherlock had keeping a watch on John and everyone else. Mycroft had kept his people protecting everyone he had left behind in case any of Moriarty's associates felt like taking revenge. He had also been very generously been providing the holes in which Sherlock had been throwing Moriarty's connections. Although Sherlock suspects that his older brother took excessive pleasure in tearing down the last of Moriarty's web. In that at least they were similar.

Sherlock resists the urge to sigh and roll his eyes at the text and whatever game his brother was playing.

SH: I couldn't care less what her name is. It's the waiting around all day for your minions to actually complete the jobs they have been given… it's BORING!

MH: Ahhh. How silly of me. I had thought you had texted me because you had seen John with Mary at your grave…from where you're sitting...

SH: Mycroft, if you have a point please do get to it quickly.

MH: Manners? Sherlock, you must be bored. Fine. You're jealous. John is moving on and this disturbs you.

The muscle in his jaw began to twitch.

SH: Fascinating hypothesis Mycroft. I am curious as to what evidence you draw this conclusion from? I was never jealous of his previous girlfriends, why should this Maddie be any different?

MH: Mary is different. You know it, Sherlock. During all of John's other rather short-lived relationships. You always came first. It is different because you are not here and Mary has, in essence, begun to take your place. And. You. Don't. Like. It.

Sherlock glares at his phone, he can practically hear the smugness radiating from Mycroft's voice. Mycroft is naturally completely incorrect in his assumption. Sherlock is not jealous. It is not something that he has ever felt and certainly was not experiencing now.

SH: Please do not make idiotic assumptions. It doesn't suit you. Now do you anything of importance to tell me?

MH: Very well. I have good news for you then. We have caught the last one. We've gathered enough evidence to clear you. You can come home, baby brother. We're all waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Flings self behind shield of justice...I know! I know They have yet to be reunited!! Be patient and all shall be yours!!! :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ressurection...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is un-beta'd and my first Sherlock story, be nice please :D

Sherlock never had expected this to be so challenging. His resurrection from death. It was a utterly unique situation. One that should be so simple and yet so infinite in its outcomes. Not many people can claim to have come back from the dead. Or if they did, they certainly weren't Sherlock Holmes. He finds that no matter many times he observes the facts or for how long he analyses John; he cannot predict how John will react when he see's him alive. When Sherlock had met John he had believed him to be predictable. A man who was undoubtedly loyal, a skilled doctor and a brave man but who was essentially ordinary.

Yet at times...he surprised Sherlock. Funny and unexpected acts that could amuse Sherlock or stun him into speechlessness. When John had grabbed Moriarty; offering to sacrifice himself so he could save Sherlock, no one had ever done that for him before. He could not understand John's immediate willingness to offer his life for Sherlock's. He remembers the determination in John's face; willing to protect a man he barely knew even if it meant he would lose his life. And now he sits in the comfort of Mycroft's ridiculously lavish house trying to calculate how he should proceed. He is…nervous...to put it in crudely. Every scenario that his mind supplies always ends in a similar conclusion. John will first be in shock or possible denial, then he will be angry resulting in punches to Sherlock's face, will most likely move out of the flat, with possibly more punches to the face if Sherlock tries to stop him. End result: John will never want to see Sherlock again. When he had consulted his older brother, Mycroft had been of little help.

 

His precise words had been. "Please desist in your sulking, Sherlock, it is most irritating. John has always been, for whatever reason, inexplicably patient when it comes to you. Something I admire him for. So I suggest you just go to him and see what happens".

His comments were both useless and insulting; Sherlock Holmes does not _sulk_. He dregs himself from bowls of his mind, looking up at the antique clock that hangs from the wall. He had been lost in his own thoughts for so long that it is approaching the hour that John usually comes to visit him. John...He makes up his mind. He is no coward and he cannot procrastinate anymore. John deserves the truth and Sherlock wants... He wants to come home. His informants had been dismissed although he suspects that Mycroft still keeps his men watching over John and the others. Something which he was grateful for although he would rather have his teeth pulled out than admit it to Mycroft. He is safe to return. There is nothing stopping him. He steps out of the house into the cold air, wrapping his scarf tightly around his neck and flips the collars of his black coat up. He hails a cab; his body tingling with adrenaline and his mind buzzing with thoughts of John.

John is walking back after another wonderful date with Mary, she is everything a man could want, beautiful, funny and intelligent. They had a lot in common and conversation flowed naturally. She understood his grief; she knew firsthand how hard it was to have someone ripped from your life. Someone who had been utterly fundamental to it and to then have to continue on. Tonight she had listened to the small pieces of information and stories he was willing to part with about Sherlock. She had smiled and told him that they must have shared a great friendship. She almost makes him feel whole again.

He walks quicker to his destination; feeling the desire more than ever to talk to Sherlock. The air is cold and his breath is clearly visible in front of him. The cemetery is empty as he stands in front of Sherlock's grave and braces himself for what he needs to say. He needs pour everything out. He needs to do this and let go or he will never be happy. He looks straight ahead trying to form the words and clears his throat.

"I know you never used listen when I talked to you about this stuff…" he frowns at the memories "...or _reply_. But I'm going to tell you anyway and you're going to lie there and listen. Okay?". He asks the air feeling more than a little ridiculous. "I've met someone. Her name's Mary and I'm thinking of…I…I need to move on Sherlock".

He says; chiding himself for the way his voice cracks and his throat begins to close.

"I can't keep moping around the flat expecting you to burst through the door. I will never forget you…I don't think I could even if I wanted to; you're my best friend. And I will always believe in you." He tells the grave; his voice full of steel and determination hoping that Sherlock could somehow hear him.

The corner of his mouth twitches as a tear falls around its shallow curve.

" I owe you… so much. But I've come to say goodbye…" He breathes in deep shuddering puffs of frosty air and reaches out to stroke the slab. "Goodbye, Sherlock." He murmurs.

Sherlock watches the scene in front of him. His heart pounding in chest as he listens to John's goodbye.The only thought that runs through his mind is NO! NO! Don't give up on me now, John. I've waiting too long. Worked too hard. You were just waiting for me. You didn't know it. But you were just waiting for me to come back he thinks desperately. In long purposeful strides he moves towards John. Tears sting his eyes as he walks behind John and reaches out.

He takes a deep breath and clasps his hand firmly over John's shoulder. He catalogues every movement John makes. John jumps when his hand comes into contact with his shoulder. He turns around and sways slightly on the spot as he looks at him. His face furrows in confusion and he squints at Sherlock as if he expects him to disappear in the next second. Sherlock releases John's shoulder and stares back at John letting him make the first move.

"Sherlock?…You…you're dead" he says his voice barely above a whisper.

He shakes his head and looks down and back up again at Sherlock. "I...how...You're dead" he says again.

Sherlock offers him a small apologetic smile. "It had to appear that way John." "No…I saw you fall. There was no pulse! Sherlock…you're dead!" He says again in an almost accusing tone; stepping forward his fists clench and his mouth sets into a small line that he gets whenever he is unhappy about something.

Sherlock frowns, the various scenarios he had imagined in his mind were beginning to look distinctly like this one and yet delieriously happy to be close to John again.

"Well obviously I am not." he replies.

" _Obviously_...? Sherlock! You…argghhhh!" John yells and punches him in the face.

Oh right...he numbly thinks as pain bursts across the side of his jaw. He stumbles back to the ground; the moist grass soaks into his trousers and his hand comes up automatically to rub at his jaw. John stands over him, arms crossed, undoubtedly to keep himself from punching Sherlock anymore. He is breathing heavily, his eyes are watery and he makes a series of vague gestures with one arm clearly unable to form the next words in his head. He sigh heavily and hides his eyes behind one had.

"How could you, Sherlock?" he asks in a wavering voice, lifting his hand from his face to jam in it into his pocket. Watery eyes boring into Sherlock. Sherlock finds that in this instance that his mind is being maliciously unhelpful in forming a reply.

Clearly done with waiting John begins to stalk off and Sherlock scrambles to get up and follow him. "Where are you going? John? Where are you going?" he calls out.

John stops and looks back at Sherlock, his face tight and hard. "I need a walk." He turns away to wipe at his eyes and looks at the floor.

"I'll meet you back at the flat? I assume you still have the key." He asks in a soft voice that made its way to Sherlock's chest and constricted it painfully.

He nods dumbly "I do…" he begins to reply but John cuts him off "I'll see you there then" and he leaves Sherlock standing there by his grave.

John walks briskly through the streets, an hour passing by into nothing. His mind preoccupied with what had just happened. Part of him wants to run back and punch Sherlock some more and the other just wants to grab the curly haired idiot and hug him as hard as he can and convince himself he is real. God…what if I am hallucinating? He thinks. He looks down at fist…his knuckles are beginning to swell slightly and were most definitely going to bruise. His jaw had felt real enough. His mind begins to fly back to that day trying to pry any possible detail that might explain how Sherlock is alive. How? He thinks desperately. He had seen him fall. He almost chides himself for doubting Sherlock. For really believing he was dead. But he isn't... Sherlock is alive!

Sherlock is _alive_ his mind yells at him happily. His legs begin to pick up pace with his realisation and he runs through the street; ignoring the odd looks he gets as he sprints down the pavement. He arrives at the flat and races up the stairs…laughing almost manically to himself when he realises that his leg is fine now. He bursts through the door, he is sweating heavily and panting from his run and just drinks in the sight of Sherlock sat in the arm chair.

_His_ _chair_. His coat and scarf are thrown haphazardly onto the sofa and he is wearing is usual dark jacket and shirt. He scans Sherlock for any changes. But he is the same as always has been. Same curly dark hair, same piercing blue eyes and ridiculously high cheekbones. His jaw had begun to colour slightly and he turns his head to meet John's unmoving stare. John's body feels heavy. His chest feels warm and he feels himself huff a small laugh and a wide smile spread on his face.

His stupid eyes begin to water again…I really have to stop crying, he thinks... Sherlock seems slightly confused by the array of emotions rapidly appearing on John's face but returns his smile. _He is alive_ , John cries out happily in his head.

In hurried steps he grabs Sherlock's arm and yanks him out the chair so that they are both standing close to one another. Then without a word John wraps one arm around Sherlock's shoulder and the other around his waist and buries his face in Sherlock's shoulder. He squeezes him tight and relishes in the solidness of him. How real his heart feels thrumming against his chest and how warm he is to hold.

Sherlock stands there stiffly. His mind begins whirring. Why is John hugging him? Does this mean he isn't angry anymore? Does this mean he isn't going to leave…?

"Sherlock" John says his voice muffled by the jacket his face is currently mashed in. "Stop thinking… it's annoying." Sherlock smiles at the comment and feels the movement of John's smile against his shoulder.

"Generally people" he continues "admittedly  _normal_ people, who don't go around pretending to be dead, hug back when they are being hugged. You idiot" Sherlock twitches under his grip realising that he is in fact stood as still as a post.

Smiling he wraps his long arms around John and hugs him back; resting his chin on John's shoulder. It was strange he had always hated hugging as a child but this was...nice. He liked the way John felt in his arms; warm and compact. He hugs him tighter and feels John do the same, their bodies pressed almost completely flush against one another. They stay like that for a while, both unsure of when to let go.

John eventually moves because he doesn't want to make Sherlock uncomfortable although he is reluctant to actually let him go. As if he might disappear again if he doesn't assure himself that Sherlock is real. John sniffs hard and pulls back removing himself from Sherlock's body. Sherlock finds himself already missing the heat and feel of John's hug. A strange tingling feeling. He watches John study the carpet, his head down and wringing his hands nervously. He looks up briefly to meet Sherlock's eyes.

"I missed you Sherlock." He says, now rubbing at the back of his neck and looking anywhere but Sherlock. Sherlock has the distinct feeling of a blush creeping up on his face…ridiculous hormones and realises that he is meant to reply judging by the increasingly awkward body language that John is displaying.

He catches John's gaze and holds it "I missed you too, John. Very much so." he replies. They look at each other for awhile and then away again.

"Right…ahem...tea?" Johns suggests. "Please" he answers. John busies himself in the kitchen while Sherlock just sits and watches him; feeling pleased with how everything has gone. John hands him his tea and sits down opposite him. Sherlock takes a sip and notes that it is just the way he likes it. He hasn't forgotten he thinks, his lips tugging up slightly at one corner in happiness and keeps his eyes fixed on John. John sits sipping his tea and watches him back.

"I'm still mad Sherlock. I don't like that you didn't tell me. But I'm going to sit here, no more punching, and you are going to explain to me why you had to pretend you were dead, how you survived and what you have been doing for more than a year."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so here is the next chapter! I will also attempt to explain how he survived the fall in the upcoming chapter! Let me know how you think he did it! Please read and enjoy! :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock explains all!!! (This is how I believe he survived how accurate it is, well that's up to :D ). Any errors are completely mine and for all those wondering this IS a slash story, but a believable one...or at least I hope that it is! Chapter 4 awaits :)

John stares at Sherlock for a moment. He needs to know how Sherlock had done it but more importantly why. Why had he left? Why had he been dead for more than a year and a half?  
Why had he been left all alone believing he had lost his best friend? 

Sherlock sits there silently and places his finger tips together; a nostalgically eloquent gesture. His elbows rest lightly on the arms of the chair and he has a small frown on his face; the one he usually pulls when in deep thought. It is so eerily familiar and so very comforting. John hadn't quite realised just how much he had missed being able to look and watch Sherlock; to see that brilliant mind at work. He parts his lips with a dry click and begins to talk.

"First of all John…I need you to know that if there had been any other viable option to the one I took I would have chosen it" he says quietly and seriously. John can see in his eyes how much he means that.

"During our last case it became clear to me what Moriarty was trying to achieve. Moriarty had me trapped. There was obviously no key but he still had me. No matter what I did someone I cared for was going to get hurt; most likely die."

Sherlock watches John sit there; his face darkening at the memories and knuckles tightening to white bumps at the mention of Moriarty. He decides it was most likely best to finish his explanation as quickly as possible.

"It was then I realised what I had to do and I begun to make the necessary preparations. Once they were completed; I asked Moriarty to come to that particular roof. It was essential to my plans; to be the orchestrator of my own death scene. To be in control of that environment without Moriarty even being aware. You had left after the phone call about Mrs Hudson being shot and it had begun. I went to meet Moriarty on the roof. I had most of my homeless network preparing below me while I kept Moriarty talking; thinking that he had won. I asked for a moment alone so I could make sure everything was in place without him becoming aware of my plan. It was then he revealed that he had snipers trained on Lestrade, Mrs Hudson and you, John. The choice he offered to me was basic in its demand; my life or each of yours. I then acted as if I wanted the recall code from him to stop the snipers...causing him to realise that if he was dead I would have no choice; exactly as I had expected. He then, proving himself to be as insane we believed him to be, shot himself so I could not extract the code to call them off. And then I called you..."

He watches John's eyes water slightly and his breathing increased considerably; his chest rising and falling rapidly. His entire body was rigid as he listened intently to every word.

"I had to keep you where you were John; not just so you wouldn't see where I landed when I fell but to keep you alive. The sniper had his sight fixed on you leaving me unnoticed. However if you had tried to enter the building he would have killed you and everything would have been for nothing. Once…"

Sherlock found this particular memory difficult to cope with. After all those years of claiming to be an emotionless sociopath he had distinctly felt the consequences of actions. The pain he would cause. The isolation he would have to face. The tasks he would need to complete in order to return home. It had bubbled and swelled in his body; heart pounding, palms sweating and tears falling. He didn't even try to stop them while he was talking to John. There had been no need to act that time. The pain had been sharp and cut like a knife. He swallowed thickly chiding himself for getting caught up in such irrelevant distractions.

"Once I jumped I landed in a rubbish truck that was filled with a large amount of stuffed bags to break my fall. It was very simple after that. The lookalike that Moriarty had used had been found dead and brought Molly's lab. So his body was used in stead of mine. I had paid a biker to knock you over and to make sure you hit your head; enough to disorient you. In that state you checked the pulse and due to your state of your disorientation did not see anything other than the body of your dead friend. I asked Molly to provide the John Doe and paperwork so that there was something to bury and proof of my death. Mycroft redeemed himself..." Sherlock looks pensive for a moment no doubt remembering Mycroft's part in his undoing before continuing.

"He gave me the money and means to stay hidden. And the hunt began. And now I'm, well, here." He finishes rather anticlimactically but it felt...freeing...to finally tell John. To release what he had been holding inside himself for so long. No more hiding. He could be himself again and come home...if John wanted him to.

John lets the information sink in and the memories wash over him. He feels hurt that Molly had never told him that Sherlock was alive...even after all those times she had seen him in pieces. But it all made a ridiculous amount of sense now. He is more than a little mad at himself for not being able to figure it out. For believing that he had died. Sherlock had given up so much to keep them safe. He can feel an angry burning in his chest for what Moriarty had forced Sherlock to do, from what he had said to him that day. How much he had taken from all of them. How much he had taken from Sherlock. He breathes deep to calm his thoughts and remind himself that Moriarty was dead. He takes his eyes from Sherlock and absently scratches his nail on the arm of the chair while focusing vacantly on some spot on the wall behind Sherlock.

"Are they all gone?" he asks gritting his teeth and praying it was over.

"They're gone. I would not have returned otherwise" Sherlock replies nodding.

John lets go of a breath he didn't know he is holding and relishes in how much lighter his muscles feel. Like a weight had been removed that he hadn't even known was there. He swallows thickly and looks at Sherlock who he can tell is probably assessing his every movement.

"Thank you. Sherlock…I'm grateful...really I am and I understand why you did it. But what I can't forgive is that you didn't tell me! Were you afraid I would ruin your plans?! Was I too average to help you?! You were alive, all this time. While I've been so..." he doesn't say 'alone'.

Sherlock's face twists with a flicker of guilt before settling into one of determination. "You must understand if I had believed that I could have told you; I would have. But there was too much risk involved. I could not guarantee that no-one would come after you… or Lestrade, Molly or Mrs Hudson." He says almost forgetting to add the others under the weight of his friends gaze.

John folds his arms defensively and his eyebrows rise in disbelief. Sherlock huffs in exasperation, running his hand across in his face in a frustrated gesture that John rarely saw. "Dead, I could ensure your life, John. It was a simple choice. I could have tried to get word to you, but there was too much that could have gone wrong...I was not willing to take that risk with your life...nor with Greg's or Mrs Hudson's." 

John can feel his resolve buckle under the weight of his friends logic."Sherlock, if anyone could have worked out a way of telling me… it would have been you". He says sounding caught somewhere between trying to scold Sherlock and trying to compliment him. He hates that. He hates that no matter what his friend does he always finds a way to forgive him. Probably always will. Sherlock smirks again; he had missed this. This easy conversation, the natural flow to their friendship and the occasional oblivious nature of John that both amused and frustrated him at times.

"Naturally… however there was also no guarantee that you would not try to help me or stop me, John" he replies. He watches John struggle with himself trying to deny the accusation before finally sagging in defeat. He knows John. His loyalty is limitless. There is no way that he would have just left Sherlock if he could have helped it. It is one of his many admirable qualities that drew Sherlock to him.

"I never wanted to cause you any pain but the alternative was far worse and something I was not willing to allow. I understand if you don't want me here again after everything that has happened but... Can I...can I come home? Can I come back to 221B Baker Street?" Sherlock asks. Those striking blue eyes look right into John and behind his cool façade John can see a trace of nervousness and fear as if he expects John to say no. He never thought he would those eyes again…

John sighs and looks at him for an unnerving period of time. "I'm sorry I hit you...is your jaw alright?" Sherlock smiles slightly, his fingers twitch to hold John again; to give him some sort of comfort at his friend's concern. It was a strange and new feeling. Not unpleasant but most definitely unsettling. He pushes it aside as irrelevant and focuses on John.

"It doesn't hurt. I had expected a reaction of the sort..." he remarks causing John to grin in that lopsided way of his despite his best efforts to hide it. "Someone once told me that they often heard 'Punch me in the face' whenever I spoke." he adds smirking at John but then he carries on his voice low and meaningful. "Please believe that I am truly sorry John. If there was any other way..."

"You can come home." John interrupts.

Sherlock blinks at him looking rather dumb. "I can?" he repeats as to be sure he had heard John correctly.

John huffs and smiles "Yes. I don't know what else you expect me to say Sherlock. You sit there telling me about how you saved my life and everyone else's. Taking you away from the life you love in the process to stop Moriarty and his web of…of bloody minions and even though I am mad, you expect me to not want you back here? You...you're..."

Sherlock smiles a little wistfully but his eyes twinkle with fondness " An idiot?" he supplies.

John smiles affectionately "Yes...you're an idiot, Sherlock and you're my best friend. Frankly I'm still half expecting to wake up tomorrow and for this all to be a dream. But god…"

He stops talking and stares for a moment at Sherlock.

"Its good to see you Sherlock. Right…ahem… I'm tired and I have to call work tomorrow and tell them I am ill, so I'm going to bed…" he gets up to leave but stops at the door placing a palm on its frame stroking it nervously.

"You'll still be here tomorrow won't you?" he asks Sherlock trying to keep the painful mix of hope and desperation out of his voice. He hopes Sherlock can't tell although of course he can.

"I'm not going anywhere John." Sherlock tells him and he watches John smile; still a little shell shocked and go upstairs to his bedroom. Everything was right again. To be back with John by his side; how it should always be. But he finds he cannot ignore that nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach that one day it might not be the case. However for now he was content to simply sit and soak in the nostalgia and familiarity of his surroundings. Home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter!!! Sherlock meets Mary!!!! Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

John is enjoying a dreamless and rather peaceful sleep for the first time in a long while when a loud bang followed by a endless stream of shouting "John wake up! John!" ultimately wakes him.

"What? Sherlock!" he leaps up and grabs Sherlock by his neck and pulls him down so he lands awkwardly on the bed; half on top of John. He squeezes him tightly and grins inanely to himself. Sherlock is alive. It wasn't a dream…thank God, he thinks. He continues to hug him close smiling happily until a muffled voice vibrates warmly against his bare neck making him shiver slightly.

"John… this… hugging thing isn't going to be a regular occurrence is it? Because as happy as I am that you are happy to see me, it's…" he trails off causing John to start and quickly release Sherlock from his python squeeze.

"Sorry…" he says still grinning and not feeling very sorry at all. But then he frowns in confusion.

"Wait…why are you in my room at…" he checks the clock "6 in the morning?" he asks failing miserably at actually sounding annoyed and simply beaming at the curly haired madman in front of him.

Sherlock stands up on John's bed; the mattress dipping with his weight. He has a huge grin on his face while he looks down gleefully at John.

"Because John! We're going to see Lestrade! It's time for my grand return!" he says adding little bounces in time with his words. Reminding John very much of an over-grown 6 year old. He sits down and shows John a black leather folder bulging with bits of paper. Sherlock sits waiting, dare he think it, patiently for John to ask him what it is.

John looks at Sherlock sat there looking like what he can only describe as a puppy waiting for a treat. Although why that comparison springs to his mind he had no idea but he thought it best to indulge him.

"What's this?" he asks pointing at the folder clutched between Sherlock's fingers. Sherlock smirks and closes his long fingers around the folder.

"This is my freedom John. Every piece of evidence against Moriarty that I have collected from his connections. All backed up of course. So today…is the big day. The world will finally know that Moriarty was real and that I am not a fake consulting detective" he says with a sneer "But THE consulting detective." He finishes stroking a hand absently over the leather and looking a little lost in his memories.

John frowns at the pain on Sherlock's face. "For what it's worth…I never doubted you, Sherlock."

His friend looks up at him, face blank and unreadable, his mouth twists upwards at a corner faintly. "Thank you John".

John clears his throat awkwardly "Right…well if you could let me get dressed…" he tells Sherlock.

"Oh yes of course… "Sherlock nods, jumping off the bed.

John grips the edge of his t-shirt and lifts it up revealing his stomach until he realises Sherlock hasn't actually left the room but has simply gone to stand to in the corner. He jumps; loosing his grip on the t-shirt quickly and tries very hard not to feel embarrassed by Sherlock's unwavering stare.

"Sherlock…?" he asks rubbing an exasperated hand over his face.

"Yes, John?" Sherlock replies, who for some reason feels compelled to stay.

"OUT!" he says pointing to the door not feeling comfortable at the idea of undressing in front of Sherlock. He can imagine it now. He would pick out every detail of his life from his skin, he wouldn't be able to hide from that piercing gaze. He rubs at the scar on his shoulder thoughtlessly, Sherlock already knows everything there was to know about John. So if he has managed by some miracle to keep some secrets from those all-seeing eyes he would rather have them stay that way...

"I'll be downstairs, John. But don't take your usual, rather, lengthy amount of time in the shower. Otherwise our breakfast will get cold…" Sherlock tells him and is out of the room as swiftly and as silently as he had came in.

"Alright...wait breakfast...?" John shouts after him but Sherlock has already gone. John gets up, quickly removing his clothes and takes one of the quickest showers in his life. When he finally gets downstairs he finds Sherlock sat at the dinner table, which is tidy, he gapes at the scene before him. He doesn't ever think he has seen the surface of the table. There are two plates of what he assumes to be toast and what was once scrambled eggs…Sherlock sits there looking at him, his puppy face making a truly majestic appearance.

"Well? Sit down, John" he says gesturing to the chair opposite him. Sherlock feels rather pleased with how this morning's experiment has gone and is eager to see what John thinks. The scrambled eggs had been more of a challenge than he had anticipated and had not turned out the same colour as the recipe indicated it should have. However he is confident in his ability to cook something so simple as scrambled egg and toast.

John hastily sits down and begins to scoff the food as quickly as he can, ignoring the crunch of shell and burnt pieces of toast. Sherlock is an enigma…he can tell you how a person died in three seconds just by looking at victim's hands but scrambled eggs on toast…apparently was like John attempting to explain quantum mechanics. Practically impossible. He watches Sherlock pop a bit of egg in his mouth; his face scrunches up at the unpleasant taste and he works his jaw slowly clearly trying to resist the urge to spit it out. John eats as much as he safely can without giving himself food poisoning.

"Thank you, Sherlock. That…was …that was very nice" he says trying to sound as convincing as possible.

Sherlock pushes his plate away in disgust.

"You are a terrible liar John, it tasted foul" he remarks clearly annoyed at the outcome of his most recent experiment. John smiles, apart from the overly sweet coffee he had received during the Baskerville case, he doesn't think Sherlock has ever made him anything before.

"Well…how about I make it tomorrow and you can observe me, alright? But Sherlock this…isn't your way of apologising is it?…I understand that you did what you had to. I'm...I'm still a little hurt but I'm not mad with you." he reassures him.

Sherlock looks at John for a moment. Even he has to admit he had little clue as to what made him want to make John breakfast. Part of what John said was true. Sherlock had wanted to show John how sorry he was for leaving. But it was more than that It was almost as if he had wanted to do something for John. Strange indeed. He smiles at John's kind offer despite the atrocity he had just made the man consume.

"Perhaps." He replies trying to ignore the vague sense of warmth and completion he feels sitting across from John. They gather their things and make their way down stairs. Sherlock stands awkwardly in front of the door, raises his fist and knocks soundly.

The door opens and Mrs Hudson gasps, tears welling up in her eyes as she reaches for Sherlock.

"Sherlock! Oh my dear! Where have you been! We thought you were dead!" she cries out to him through her tears and hugs him close. He notes the differences between her hug and John's. She feels light and almost fragile in his arms. He holds her gently; she's warm but not as warm as John was and she doesn't squeeze him as tightly.

"It wasn't safe for me to stay. It would have put you and John in terrible danger. I hope you can understand?" he asks gently. She nods, pulling away wiping at her eyes; her face forming a scolding frown.

"I hope you realise how much you put us through! Put John through! I could hear him every night you know, shouting out your name…" she tells him; finger pointing at him. John looking startled at the direction that the conversation has taken.

"Yes alright…" he starts.

"Crying himself to sleep" she continues ignoring John's protest.

"Yes, thank you…" he coughs averting his eyes from Sherlock.

"I was so afraid for a while that he might try..."

"Mrs Hudson! Hasn't he suffered enough?!". He interrupts loudly, casting a quick look towards Sherlock who is looking thoroughly shocked.

John collects himself for a moment and his voice is quiet and steady once again. "I'm sorry, Mrs Hudson, but we really do need to get going."

She nods, casting little sympathetic glances between the two of them before pulling her face into a smile.

"Alright dears, but Sherlock remember just because you're not dead anymore doesn't mean that I'm your housekeeper. And Lord help you if I find any body parts in the fridge…or hear any gunshots in the middle of the night" she tells him sternly.

Sherlock smiles at her "You have my word, Mrs Hudson" he says cheekily; his face full of mischief that she can't help smiling back although she knows it will probably cost her some eyeballs in the microwave.

John can't shake off the feeling of shame. He has always hated his nightmares but he had always dealt with them in his own way. He could never talk about them, even in therapy. He was never going to tell Sherlock how he had almost given up...never. 

They sit in silence in the cab. John stares out of the window, clearly not wanting to discuss it. Sherlock sits contemplating what Mrs Hudson had just said, eyes flickering to John, trying to imagine what this year was like for John.

" …shouting my name?" he asks in a low voice, it barely anything more than a rumble in his chest. John answers back almost immediately "Nightmares." He says clipped and blunt like he's back in the army again.

Sherlock cannot understand how his death could have had such a fierce effect on John. It makes him feel strange but nauseous at the same time. To have been the cause of this. To have caused him pain. It...upset him.

"Crying?" he asks. John sighs in defeat…"Sherlock can you please not…Look, I was grieving over your death…" John says stoutly ignores the way his voice cracks at the word 'death' "…its normal…but you're not dead…so I'm fine…so can we just not?" he finishes, meeting Sherlock's sad eyes for a moment before looking back out of the window. Mrs Hudson's last sentence kept replaying over and over in his mind.

He flicked his eyes towards John's still form. His voice croaked slightly as he spoke. "You didn't try to...". He searches John's face unable to even contemplate finishing that sentence.

John's eyes crinkle in a sad understanding, he shook his head and said firmly. "No".

Sherlock for once finds he does not know what to say, so he slides his hand over the seat and gently takes John's hand in his. John's hand is surprisingly smooth and warm. He grips John's fingers squeezing them gently. He almost thinks John will pull away when he feel's John grip his fingers back. John grasps Sherlock's long, cold fingers relishing in the comfort he finds holding them. It is rare for Sherlock to be the one to offer this. He often avoided physical experiences as often he could; dismissing them as messy and unnecessary. For some reason the fact that Sherlock was willing, wanting even to do this for John made his stomach swirl and feel warm. He squeezes them one last time before pulling away feeling considerably better. They don't need to say anything else for the rest of the journey.

They reach Lestrade's office and ignore the shocked stares and gasps as they walk through the building. Each gasp and startled look causes John to smile a little wider and grin a little harder. Sherlock's back, he thinks. They open the door without knocking and Sherlock throws the folder down on the desk in front of a gaping Lestrade.

Lestrade sees him and almost falls out of his chair. He gets up, eyes wide clearly in shock and shakes Sherlock's hand. He pats him soundly on the back in a semi-sort of hug, shaking his head and failing to hide his grin.

"You know, you look remarkably healthy for a dead man! It's good to see you, Sherlock." He says looking like he really means it. He frowns and shifts his feet uncomfortably "I never got the chance to tell you, that I'm sorry for doubting you..."

Sherlock looks taken back but recovers; a gentle look on his face "In the past" he says dismissing it.

"So...I assume this folder is something important then?" Lestrade asks plucking it from his desk and opening it to scan the contents. Sherlock takes his time to watch Lestrade's eyes widen in surprise, pupils dilating and his mouth gaping in a big O; savouring the moment.

"As I'm sure you have summarised…that contains every piece of evidence I have collected against Moriarty. Proving his guilt and along with it my innocence." He informs Lestrade who is now grinning like a mad man.

"Well…I suppose that's the charges against you dropped except the kidnap charges…which I am assuming you won't be pressing John?" he asks already knowing the answer.

John grins and takes his time 'hmmming' and 'tutting'; pretending to carefully consider it.

Sherlock looks unamused…except for the small twitch of his lips upward "John".

"Hang on…I'm trying to decide here" he says holding up an arm and smiling cheekily. Lestrade attempting in vain to hide his chuckle.

"John" Sherlock says again; trying to sound threatening but smirking all the while.

"Nahhhhhh. I won't bother. Would be too much hassle keeping him in prison. The other prisoners wouldn't last two seconds if he got bored!" he tells Lestrade; revelling in the tick Sherlock's eyebrow indicating his lack of amusement at John's comment.

"John if you've quite finished…" he drawls sardonically. John puts his hands up in surrender, exchanging an amused glance with Lestrade. However it is at that point that Anderson and Donovan walk in; spoiling the mood with their sour faces.

"You! I should have known you wouldn't do the world a favour and top yourself." Anderson all but snarls. Donovan stands at his side; arms crossed and a smug look plastered on her face. " How did you do it Sherlock? Hmm? Who did we bury? Some poor sap you did away with I bet. At least now we get the pleasure of arresting a sick psychopath like you..." she all but spits.

John steps forward, face blank with rage and his fist clenched. He has never felt such pure rage before. Anderson's rat face is just calling to be plastered into the nearest set of bricks he can find. He can honestly say he has never felt like being violent towards a woman before but Donovan is really pushing his boundaries. If they even had the remotest clue of who Sherlock really is; what he had done to protect the people he had cared for. What he had done for John. He didn't deserve to be spoken to like that.

Sherlock resists the urge to roll his eyes at the pair of idiots that stand in front of him. They really haven't a clue he thinks. He looks at John; observes the tightness of his body, increased breathing and his fists clenched tightly shaking at his sides. It is most likely that in the next 5 seconds John will have Anderson's face inside the wall. And as much as he would enjoy watching that; it wouldn't help him or John. He puts his hand on John's shoulder squeezing gently and shoots a steely glare at the pair of them.

"Anderson…I understand that your wife finally seeing sense and leaving you must be very…upsetting. So upsetting in fact that you have neglected to inform Donovan here, judging by the look on her face… Now, I don't like looking at either of you, it reduces my IQ, so I will make this quick. I am clear of all my charges and I will return to assisting Lestrade with cases he requires my help with." He tells them; his voice cold and sharp.

"We…we'll see what the Chief Superintendent has to say about this…" Anderson stutters, face red and blotchy with anger. Donovan, however, has become strangely silent; glaring at Anderson making him twitch nervously in his skin.

"Oh really…so you haven't been informed? He's been suspended… indefinitely…something about a drugs bust…Congratulations, Greg." He smiles pointedly causing Lestrade to start in surprise at the use of his first name. John smiles…Mycroft , he thinks happily. He remembers how satisfying it had been to wipe that smug superior look off the Chief's face…with his fist. John offers a hand to Lestrade who shakes it somewhat numbly still in shock. He clasps his hands behind his back grinning almost manically at the people in the room. Life's good again…his mind revels.

"Well done, mate" he says genuinely happy for Greg. He strides nonchalantly over to where Anderson and Donovan are stood by the wall looking like naughty children and looks Anderson and Donovan, flicking his gaze between them. He can feel his face harden, the same look he gets when he fires his gun or when someone insults Sherlock...

"I think you both owe Sherlock an apology?" he suggests; the sentence actually sounding nothing like a suggestion and more like an order. An order which if disobeyed would most likely result in Anderson losing a most treasured part of his anatomy.

Anderson falters under John's fierce stare. "I apologise…" he sneers at Sherlock; sounding as if every letter was giving him an aneurysm. Donovan shifts awkwardly "I'm sorry" she mutters staring defiantly at the floor.

Sherlock smirks "Please...Anderson don't strain yourself…we don't want an accident. Again. And thank you, Donovan. Come on, John, I've think we're done here".

They both stride from the building with a last bemused look from Lestrade as he ushers a blustering Anderson and eerily quiet Donovan from his office as if they are both diseased and catching. John and Sherlock walk side by side, matching smirks and in time strides. Like two halves of a whole.


	6. Date Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Expect a whole lot more chapters! :)

John brushes a stray hair from his forehead and scrutinises his reflection. He is wearing black jeans and a nice crisp dark blue shirt which he thinks suits him quite well. Tonight, after a very long time, he is going on a date with Mary. It has been almost three weeks since Sherlock's return and although Mary has been very understanding; John doesn't want her to feel neglected. She is….he winces at the disrupting sound…she is…he feels his body shudder involuntarily at the shrill screeching that is blaring from the living room. He sighs and hangs his head. When he had told Sherlock he was going on a date with Mary Sherlock had looked at him coolly and said "I see…" and then began murdering John slowly through his violin. He honestly has the mentality of a four year old at times…John marvels in his head. With a last fleeting look in the mirror he exits his bedroom and goes to confront Sherlock who seems to be trying to reach a noise that only dogs could hear via his instrument.

"Sherlock…."he says attempting to get his attention. Sherlock has his eyes fixed on some spot on the wall but John knew he could hear him due to the increased pace with which he had begun moving his bow. Apparently Mycroft wasn't the only one who could be subjected to this noise, which was a shame because when Sherlock did play properly; he played wonderfully. John rests his hands on his hips and sighs deeply…This is not going to be fun he thinks.

"Sherlock! I have already re-arranged this date twice! I really care about Mary and I am going to see her tonight. So stop SULKING!" he says loudly trying to project his voice over the racket, noting with satisfaction that Sherlock freezes at the use of the word 'sulking'. He stops; dropping his hands to his sides but not relinquishing his grip on his bow or violin. He narrows his eyes letting John know he is under Sherlock's full scrutiny. John however, unimpressed, just looks back at him.

"I do not sulk" Sherlock all but snarls as if the word is unpleasant for his brain to process. Sherlock ignores how his brain keeps telling him that John's shirt matches his eyes. Or how it outlines his upper body in very different way from the jumpers he usually wears because that is irrelevant data. John huffs in disbelief.

"Oh really? Well…how about pouting? Or throwing a tantrum? Do you not do those either?" he asks repeating Sherlock's words and holding his fingers up in quotation marks. John partly wants to antagonise him as payback for the noise he has had to endure for the past 5 hours. But he is also genuinely curious as to whether or not Sherlock realises that sometimes he acts like a child that has just spat his dummy out of the pram.

He rubs a hand over his face and shakes his head slightly; he didn't want to argue.

"Look Sherlock I get it. You're bored and you need a case. And since I've starting writing my blog again and the newspapers have cleared your name it's only a matter of time before you get one. I'm sure Lestrade will call you once there is a case he needs your help with" he says trying to be diplomatic.

He evidently fails miserably as Sherlock only huffs and screeches a loud, obnoxious reply on his violin. John watches Sherlock fiddle with violin expecting him to stick his tongue out at him any minute. I am probably going to regret this he thinks to himself.

"I look…you could come if you want? Mary has been wanting to meet you since I told her how you came back from the dead…" he tries awkwardly. Sherlock shifts in the spot looking at John disbelievingly.

"You're just saying that…" he replies although he doesn't sound to certain. John steps closer and looks into Sherlock's doubtful face trying to show him how sincere he was.

"No I'm not. I'll admit I'm slightly terrified at the thought of you two meeting. But if you promise to be on your best behaviour…"

"I am not a child!" Sherlock interrupts indignantly but John just gives him a reproachful look that Sherlock scowls at and he continues.

"By that, I mean any kind of unwanted deduction, Sherlock." He states emphasising every word as if somehow that will impress it on Sherlock's brain. A pointless effort as Sherlock can memorise large amounts of data in a matter of seconds…relevant data that is.

"But I'm not dressed…" he begins looking down at his dressing gown which he has been sporting for the past few days.

"Well get dressed then and I'll let Mary know that you are coming" John says patiently and pulls out his phone.

"And…I wouldn't be interrupting?" Sherlock asks just to clarify however John just stares at him with a look that clearly says 'you know perfectly well you will be but if I have to put up with your sulking anymore I will have to hurt your face'. Sherlock got dressed swiftly and they took a cab to the restaurant.

They are ushered in by overly familiar staff and Sherlock looks around the dimly lit restaurant filled with couples. It was a Turkish restaurant by a quick look at the menu, Mary's choice not John's; John preferred Italian cuisine. He sees Mary at the table sporting a silky green dress that she had most likely chosen to bring out her eyes and that displays a little cleavage no doubt to please John. She wore, what was most definitely her best jewellery, considering how expensive and clean it appeared. She had clearly been anticipating this date with John and wanted to impress him. Sherlock watches John's face light up when he sees her. An automatic smile spreads across his face as he waves his hand at her slightly. Sherlock finds it disquieting. He usually enjoys seeing John's smile but in this instance, he finds it isn't quite the same, but he cannot understand why…However John interrupts his thoughts.

"Remember what we discussed Sherlock. No deducing." He reminds him placing a hand on his forearm so he could gain his full attention.

"Of course" Sherlock replies dryly and removes his arm from John's strangely warm grip.

They reach the table and Mary stands up holding out a hand to Sherlock with a smile on her face. Sherlock looks at her hand momentarily and flickers his eyes to John who watches him expectantly. He shakes her hand and smiles tightly back at her.

"So you must be Miss Mary Morstan. John's told me so much about you" he says feeling his face strain at the smile he is pulling.

"Nice to meet you, Mr Holmes. John has told me quite a bit about you too" she tells him smiling sweetly and lets go of his hand to place a kiss on John's cheek. Sherlock feels his stomach flip unpleasantly wondering what things John had told her about him and why, for just a fraction of a second, he had the confusing urge to stop her from kissing his cheek. He watches as John smiles looking embarrassed and somewhat pleased and holds out her chair for her.

Once they are all seated and have ordered their drinks; the dreary small talk that makes Sherlock want to shoot people with a revolver begins.

"So, John tells me you are a consulting detective? Must be fascinating work" she comments taking a sip of white wine, wisely steering clear of the year he was 'dead', and appearing to be truly fascinated by what Sherlock has to say. Sherlock resists the urge to roll his eyes at her predictably dull comment.

"Yes, it keeps my mind occupied" he replies somewhat bluntly hoping that her conversation would be directed towards John so that he could simply observe. However she appeared to be undeterred.

"I can imagine. From what I've read from John's blog you and he had so many exciting cases. It must have been so thrilling" she says directing the last statement at John who smiles at her but keeps looking at Sherlock; as if to make sure he was alright. Even he had not missed how her statement had been in past tense. As if Sherlock wouldn't be able to lead such a life again or that John wouldn't be joining him even if he did get cases again. He felt an odd lurch in his stomach. It was an outcome he that he did not want to consider.

"Yes. It was. Hopefully Sherlock will get a case soon and we'll be back to Sherlock forgetting his pants and me blogging about it while solving crime" he says looking amused and grinning at Sherlock in nostalgia. Sherlock smirks back immediately feeling his body calm and settle.

"At least I got the ashtray" he replies as John laughs and shakes his head. Mary glances between them smiling.

"What's this?" she asks. John smiles and looks at Sherlock fondly.

"One of Sherlock's clients was royalty and we found ourselves in Buckingham palace. And…Sherlock…" he stutters between laughing and wiping his eyes as Sherlock watches bemused.

"Sherlock was sat there in his bed sheet because he had refused to get dressed. And he had no pants on underneath it…oh god...but it was worth it to see Mycroft's face." John continues to chuckle as Sherlock watches him momentarily forgetting about Mary; it is nice to see him laugh again. John has a nice laugh.

Mary frowns a little at Mycroft's name but smiles again at John's chortle.

"Who's Mycroft?" she asks John but he shakes his head unable to reply; evidently captured in a state of Sherlock remembers John had once referred to as the 'the giggles'.

"He's my arch-enemy" Sherlock answers for him looking at her but still watching John shaking with silent laughter from the corner of his eye. She tilts her head slightly at his choice of words and opens her mouth to question him but John gets there first.

"Sherlock, he's your brother… not your "arch-enemy" "he admonishes; a small frown line appearing between his brows although Sherlock could tell from the quirk of his lips that he wasn't being serious.

Mary quirks her lips in amusement as she watches them but says nothing. The waiter comes over to take their order holding out the notepad in front of them and smiles broadly at Mary.

"I'll have the Mousakka, please" she tells him and waits for Sherlock and John to make their order. Sherlock's watches for a few moments as John scans the menu that he hasn't really read trying to find something that would appeal to him. Sherlock decides, for his own sake of not wanting to further compound his boredom, to order for the both of them.

"And two Cupra's please." He tells the waiter who nods approvingly at his choice and walks off. John cocks his head to the side in puzzlement and fixes dark blue eyes unwaveringly on Sherlock reminding him for an odd second of a puppy. It is a bizarre comparison that his brain supplied. However it is one that he could not help but find endearingly accurate.

"Cupra?" John questioned unaware of Mary's focused gaze on the both of them.

"Sea bream with lemon, olive oil, herbs and salad" Sherlock replies rattling off the list his mind supplies him. But to his annoyance John still looks confused and keeps looking at Sherlock.

"What?" he asks and John squints slightly at him as if he was trying to deduce Sherlock.

"How did you know what I would like?" John asks him with a disbelieving huff and smile.

"I know everything about you, John." He states simply hoping that this would clear the matter up; not seeing the way Mary's eyebrows raise slightly in surprise as he is too focused on John.

John hums unsure whether he should be disturbed by this fact or warmed by it. Sherlock hadn't deleted any information about John. He could feel a warm smile grace his face as he looked at Sherlock, who clearly was puzzled by John's thought process, but returns a small one of his own regardless.

He clears his throat remembering that the whole point of this date was supposed to be because he didn't want to neglect Mary and promptly asks her how her day had been. The rest of the evening continued on with no incidents Sherlock was polite if a little blunt and Mary seemed to like him and enjoy herself.

Sherlock got a cab back by himself when John told him he was walking Mary back to her flat ignoring the vague feeling of disappointment and loneliness. His mind assaulted him with vivid images of John and Mary and what they would undoubtedly be doing later this evening. In this rare instance he found his brain's attention to detail to be a curse rather than a blessing…

His phone vibrates and he knows who it is before he has pulled it from his coat pocket. My arch-enemy he thinks...

MH: Enjoy your dinner?

SH: Mycroft. How nice. Is there a reason you are stalking me?

MH: Just wanted to see how my baby brother is doing.

Sherlock scoffs and waits for Mycroft to get on with whatever mundane point he is going to make.

MH: So Mary is lovely isn't she?

SH: She is attractive enough I suppose, but not good enough for John.

Somewhere in London, Mycroft smirks broadly at his phone; his brother could be so transparent sometimes.

MH: Oh really? She is a successful teacher, popular, smart and beautiful. My background check shows she has no hidden or less than clean past. What exactly makes her not good enough for John?

SH: Nothing, except for the fact that she is painfully dull and ordinary. John…needs danger and excitement in his life.

MH: He gets that from you, no? So why does he also need it from Mary? Surely she will be a welcome reprieve from whatever dangerous situations you will undoubtedly land him in.

Sherlock clenches his jaw at the insinuation and resists the urge to roll his eyes; his brother could be so transparent at times.

SH: I'm not jealous Mycroft.

MH: Of course not. Why would you be? It is not as if John is rapidly falling in love with a smart and beautiful woman. A woman whom he will eventually move in with and marry, most likely have many children and lead a dull but happy life together. Thus leaving you all alone while he slowly but surely becomes little more than an old acquaintance.

Apparently Mycroft had decided to abandoned subtlety and take a more dramatic route in his efforts to emotionally affect Sherlock.

SH: You embarrass yourself with your blatant attempts to upset me, Mycroft. Why are you so intent on this matter?

MH: Because I would rather have you realise now then when it would be too late to act. Believe it or not I am actually trying to help you. Good night, Sherlock.

Sherlock clutches his phone tightly, practically throws his money at the cabbie and climbs out of the taxi. He marches up the stairs to his flat, Mycroft's words racing unwanted around his mind and goes to his bedroom. Growling he flings his phone on his bed; angry that he had allowed Mycroft to affect him this way. He does not want John to leave. John is…John. He has only just got him back…Having him in his life…is…good; his mind supplies helpfully.

Mycroft is wrong…John is not going to marry Mary. Things were going to continue as they always have done. Why is this affecting him so much? He starts to analyse his own behaviour. He always wants John around and gets a nauseating feeling whenever he imagines John and Mary together. It feels so fundamentally wrong to him like every fibre of his being was fighting against it. Mary was nice enough but John deserves so much more. He is his best friend. Sherlock cares for him more than anyone else in his life. The idea of him leaving is naturally…distressing.

He thinks about when John had hugged him. How warm and solid he had been in his arms and the way he had held Sherlock strongly despite his smaller stature. How comfortable Sherlock had felt, despite the fact that he almost always hated physical contact. He thinks about the time he had held John's hand in the cab. He rarely ever initiated physical contact. He stares at his own hand as if it didn't belong to him and flops back on his bed. Lost deep in his thoughts. His fingertips tingle as he remembers how soft John's skin had been and the gentle way John had squeezed his fingers back. When John had told him about how nightmares had been affecting him, he had instinctively grabbed John's fingers, wanting to reassure and comfort him. The need to touch had been so overwhelming; even now sometimes he wanted to grab John and hug him for no apparent reason, especially whenever he seemed upset.

He stops. There it is…staring him in the face. So clear. All these things he was experiencing. They all pointed to one thing. Evidently he has feelings…romantic feelings for John Watson.

He felt a rush of breath leave him as the implications of this realisation hit him. He wasn't supposed to ever be able to feel like this. Feelings confused and distracted people. He wanted nothing more to bury them and continue as the high-functioning sociopath that he was…is. But if he ignores their existence then that would mean John would undeniably continue his relationship with Mary...He shakes his head; clearly boredom has already begun to eat away at his mind.

First he would have to establish the depth of his feelings towards John and whether he was attracted to him. If an attraction was confirmed. Then the next most difficult task would be to see if John, the man who always claimed so resolutely 'not to be gay', was attracted to Sherlock on any level. He doubts John feels anything other than friendship towards Sherlock. Right now he is most likely with Mary engaging in a number of messy and intimate activities. His thoughts are halted however, by the soft click of the front door and John's soft footsteps. They stop outside his door for about a minute, as if John is trying to decide whether or not to knock on Sherlock's door, and then they move away to John's bedroom. Sherlock tries in vain to ignore the happiness he feels at John coming home instead of spending the night with Mary. He begins, with renewed enthusiasm, to formulate plans to test the parameters of his and John's friendship.

John enters the flat with a soft click of the door noting the darkness of the flat and the light softly emanating from Sherlock's room. Mary's words play in his head over and over again.

He loves you very much… This had stopped John in his tracks. What? He remembers himself asking rather dumbly and looking at Mary noting something like resignation behind her kind smile.

Sherlock…I can tell her cares for you a great deal. She says again and John is unsure of what to say. He knows that Sherlock cares for him but the word love…for some reason made his heart thunder in his chest and his body warm. He supposes it was because he has never heard it in reference to him before.

I care about him a lot too…he had replied carefully feeling as if this is somehow a test that he is failing. She had smiled at him and hummed in agreement. They had walked the rest of the way in silence and when they reach her flat John found that he was tired. He had kissed her gently on the lips but nothing more and said goodbye.

And now he is stood outside Sherlock's door, arm raised and fist poised to knock. Why is he even here? I'm not just going to walk in there and ask if Sherlock loves me…he thinks confused by his odd behaviour. He shakes his head and walks away to his own bedroom feeling somewhat displaced by Mary's words and yet with no good reason as to why. I just need sleep he thinks to himself and climbs into bed perfectly aware that he won't sleep well at all.


	7. Revelations

After last nights' epiphany, Sherlock had decided that he needed to act as quickly as possible. He cannot wait. He cannot let John's feelings for Mary develop and ultimately decide to leave Sherlock alone and with all these confusing emotions.

Sherlock feels himself release an unwanted sigh into the silence of his room as he sits on his bed. Mycroft was probably still smirking from last night's conversation. The notion that Mycroft knew something before he did was intolerable. He hated feeling this way. He longed for the simplicity of the ordinary mind. To simply reach inside himself, examine the little venomous creature that stirred his insides and identify it with a cool accuracy. Jealously. Anger. Adoration. Happiness. Attraction. Want…Love. But Sherlock simply found… he could not.

For the first time, he was hesitant, perhaps even fearful that he may be mistaken in his affections for John and to jeopardise their friendship in any way was simply unacceptable to him. Sherlock always hated to admit that he lacked expertise in any field however feelings were regrettably one of them. Sherlock already knew he cared for John deeply but he needed to see if he was attracted to John and not just experiencing mistaken brotherly affection. Something else he was foreign to. He had always thought it was impossible; to rouse his body in the ways of the average man. Even Irene Adler, in all her naked glory, only stirred him through her intellectual challenge and depth. It was another reason why his emotions toward John continued to confound him. He was in EVERY way ordinary and yet he was so UTTERLY unique.

He gets up and begins to pace the room; yet again. He lets the morning light wash over his skin, his fingers press together in their usual position at his chin and a small frown line forms between his brows. He hadn't slept. He had been devouring every scrap of information available to him; to formulate his plan. The plan he had formulated, in essence was simple. An observation. A case of observing his own physiological and behavioural reactions to the stimulus (John) and see. John would be unclothed and then he would see if even a self-proclaimed high functioning sociopath could be reduced to…want. It both terrified and intrigued Sherlock in a perfect dichotomous symphony.

He leaves his room after showering and changing into clean clothes. He had instinctively chosen one of his more flattering shirts, dark blue, as if his subconscious knew something he didn't. He makes his way to the kitchen and prepares, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards at the sound of John making his way in heavy thudding footsteps down the stairs. It begins he thinks to himself with something akin to glee.

John rubs a warm hand down his face trying to wipe the exhaustion from it although Sherlock would undoubtedly see it anyway and plods heavily down the stairs. He rolls his neck around on his shoulders a couple of times trying to ease the crick in his neck and loosen the tightly wound muscles of his upper back. His sleep had been restless to put it mildly. For whatever reason Mary's words kept replaying over and over in his mind. He felt as if there was something important…vital, even, that he had missed. It was as if Mary had meant something else. That look on her face kind but ultimately sad and resigned.

God, I need a cup of tea he thinks despairingly and moves into the kitchen to seek his salvation. However he comes in and sees that the kettle has already been boiled and Sherlock is standing at the counter in the process of making…tea. John finds himself staring at Sherlock who looks up, his bright blue eyes made even bluer by the colour of shirt he is wearing and smiles. Not a smirk. Not a grin. Not a small twitch of his lips. Just a smile. John returns it like an idiot shaking his head dumbfounded. However the words Mary spoke float, very much unwanted, at this moment in time into his thoughts making him uncomfortable.

He loves you very much…

His eyes dart nervously around the room attempting to find some other purchase apart from Sherlock and clears his throat once for good measure.

"What are you doing, Sherlock?" he asks half bemused half nervous in case he is going to find himself hallucinating giant hounds. Again.

Sherlock hums and gives him a disappointed 'even you can't be that thick' look.

"I'm making tea, John" he says and hands him his cup; his favourite cup no less full of hot, none lethal looking tea.

He still sniffs it for good measure, ignoring the roll of Sherlock's eyes and sips it; surprised at the pleasant taste on his tongue.

"Thank you, Sherlock." He smiles and goes to sit in his arm chair; Sherlock however has other plans. John feels that sudden jolt shudder through his body. The kind you get when you dream of falling and jump awake in your sleep. And suddenly he finds himself in Sherlock's arms , halfway to the floor, an empty mug in his hand and scalding hot tea burning his chest and stomach. With a yelp he leaps up, with slight help from Sherlock and all but rips off his tea-soaked t-shirt. He drops it hastily on the table and begins to rub at his already reddening skin drying to dry himself and hisses slightly at the sting of it. Sherlock grabs a bag of frozen peas from the freezer, deciding that John would appreciate those against his skin more than the bag of frozen fingers and toes and wraps them in a towel pressing it against the red skin of his torso. John makes a noise of protest at the cold object pressed against his skin. He suddenly feels rather like a specimen under the microscope; stood there shirtless and hair mussed from where his t-shirt had ruffled it.

"Sherlock you don't have to…" he starts in surprise as Sherlock moves his hand and gently presses the peas against the heat of his skin. John stoutly suppresses the shudders the coldness brings to his spine and watches Sherlock. Sherlock's flicks his eyes to John, taking something like affirmation from John's face before turning his attention back to his torso. John's body hums with coiled tension but he stills stands there. Everything about this situation; makes him want to turn and run. Sherlock's closeness to his body. His chilled fingers, pressing gently against the red marks; quietly analysing. John had never felt so naked. His hand twitches with the urge to cover the scar that mars his shoulder. He can feel his breathing quicken and he is also sure that he can feel a red blush creep up from his chest and begin to stain his cheeks. Perhaps not so noticeably to anyone else but to Sherlock's piercing gaze…it immediately makes John's gaze focus on some point on the wall and try to block out how Sherlock's sweeping fingers feel on his bare skin.

Sherlock's quick mind is processing everything he sees in front of him. John's body is stocky but solid and firm. The weight he had lost has stayed off, undoubtedly due to the fact that John still exercised regularly maintaining his routine; a fine example of his soldier's discipline. He presses the peas against a strong chest and a surprisingly well developed abs region. Sherlock watches in fascination at the way John's muscles contract and relax with every breath. The redness is fading now, under the feather-light sweep of his finger tips. He experiences a strange tingling at how his movement cause the smallest unwilling shudder from John. So very like John; trying to remain disciplined at all times. It made Sherlock want to push the boundaries of that discipline and break them.

A small shift from John makes him redirect his attention back onto what he is doing. He lets his eyes trace over his upper body which is almost completely smooth except for the small trail of blonde brown hair from under his belly button, an in-ny not an out-y, which trails down beneath his jeans. A path Sherlock finds himself following. His other fingers, which are not touching John, itch to unveil more skin, to see more of John. Sherlock pushes those thoughts down and moves his gaze back up. John has short, strong arms but his gaze soon finds itself fixed on the large scar that tarnishes the smooth skin of John's left shoulder. Sherlock finds himself wanting to touch it, memorise every ridge and bump of the damaged skin the bullet had left behind; almost taking John's life with it.

John clearly notices his shift in attention and shifts his body nervously under Sherlock's intense scrutiny. His hand rises up to rub distractedly at the former wound. He looked almost vulnerable and Sherlock felt the illogical urge to protect him; which was truly ludicrous because he knows that John is very capable of ensuring his own safety. However seeing him stood shirtless in front of him, hand over his scar, eyes cast to the floor and a pink hue colouring his cheeks... did unreasonable things to his insides. But his thoughts were interrupted by John's voice; low and thoughtful.

"…A man had been wounded during a patrol…he kept crying out for help but we were under enemy fire and we were cut off. We received an order to retreat but all I could hear was his voice screaming out in…in agony! I didn't think. I just ran out towards him. I don't think I was even looking and I took a rifle round to the shoulder for it. The other solider had died when the team finally managed to get to him and I…well…Now I'm here."

He finishes dropping his arm, frowning at his reasoning for telling Sherlock and casts his gaze up to Sherlock in an attempt to read his thoughts. He is surprised at the intense look that he sees on his face and the fingers that gently trace the grooves and bumps of his scar.

Sherlock feels himself still at John's words; bag still pressed against John's chest. He is unable to stop his fingers that reach out to touch John's skin again. Sherlock expects him to pull away; shocked by the intimacy of Sherlock's actions. But he doesn't; he simply watches him.

"I'm glad you are." Sherlock tells him; his voice barely recognisable. A deep and distracted rumble in his throat and he moves closer trying to memorise everything about the scar that nearly prevented John from entering his life. What he is unprepared for is the adrenalin that assaults his system from the heat that radiates from John. It is pleasant and practically taunts him. He wants to wrap himself around it, absorb it; find some way to enter it and make it part of himself. He is unprepared for the way his breathing hitches and his body inches towards John's.

However what he is overwhelmingly unprepared for is John's response. John; who has yet to move away from Sherlock. Whose breath has heightened, his pupils dilated and his skin practically thrumming with hot energy under Sherlock's finger tips. Sherlock finds himself watching John's mouth, parted ever so slightly, a tongue darting out to wet the lips. It's fascinating; although he cannot understand why. The bag of peas still pressed against John's chest release a few wet drops of defrosted ice onto John's bare torso. He jumps slightly at the way it trickles down his stomach, a surprised noise escaping his throat breaking the heavy silence that had surrounded them. Sherlock let go of his shoulder and places them on the table; his eyes never leaving John's.

Wordlessly he takes John's shirt from the table and hands it to him. He watches John stare at it him in confusion for a moment and then wipes the water from his stomach; the movement distracting Sherlock.

"Thanks. I'm just going to…err." He says holding the shirt in explanation and nodding towards his bedroom.

Sherlock nods but as John turns around he calls out to him.

"Thank you for telling me, John." he says sincerely happy that John would part such personal information to him without being prompted. He watches John's eyes soften slightly with something that might be fondness, before shrugging one shoulder slightly nonchalantly and continuing back to his room.

Sherlock stands there feeling slightly dazed. His plan had worked effortlessly and considering his results; he could not even bring himself to feel remotely guilty at causing John some discomfort. John's shoes, the kitchen floor and the oil he had discreetly placed earlier had all worked in perfect harmony. Sherlock focuses on his body; cataloguing every sensation and thought. His are fingers tingling with sensation of John's skin and are insatiable with the urge to touch it again.

He had no illusions that what he had felt was indeed attraction. It had pulled at his primal core, sending his blood downwards and reminded him that he is indeed just as human as anyone else. He closes his eyes and breathes in deeply; letting the images of John's body that he had filed away come slowly to his mind. He had a very pleasing body and a somewhat...cute face. He smirks at the empty kitchen, he is sure John would not appreciate being thought of as cute. His ruffled blonde hair and eyes, a dark blue, honest and firm and a shapely expressive mouth were all highly appealing. But he did not want to linger there. He fast forwarded his mind; letting it focus on John's reaction, the allowed intimacy and what he had told him. And he allowed himself to hope.

John shut the door firmly behind him and resolutely focuses on walking to the wardrobe and putting on another top. He grabs his favourite black and white jumper and pulls it over his head; his mind racing. He ignores how he feels as if those long fingers were still tracing gentle patterns over his skin and shoulder. Ignores how he could not bring himself to pull away from Sherlock's gaze or touch despite the fact he knew that they were too close. Ignores how in that very instant when Sherlock had moved forward how he had been absorbed by Sherlock's face. His enticing blue eyes, the sculpted curve of his cheekbones and how soft his lips had looked.

He had found himself wondering what it would be like if he and Sherlock were in fact a couple. Would Sherlock's touch feel like it had? What he would look like if John touched him back? And how his lips would taste if John had surged forward to meet them. He rubs a frustrated hand through his hair and sits down on the edge of the bed trying to sort through his confused thoughts. Why? he thinks angrily. The memory of his and Irene's conversation pulling itself to his awareness.

You're a couple…

No we're not…

Yes you are.

Look…who knows about Sherlock…but for the record…I'm not actually gay.

Well I am.

Look at us both…

The unspoken message behind her words and 'yet we both are drawn to him…'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to follow! Comment, kudos, do nothing! Your choice! :)


	8. Dreaming

After a while John musters the courage to venture from his room, a book clutched firmly in his hand with a determination to push any strange thoughts of Sherlock from his mind. He enters the living room expecting to see Sherlock fiddling with one of his experiments or one of his other intellectual pursuits with which he fills his time but he finds that the flat is empty. He can't help but hate the feeling of emptiness that the absence brings; a painful reminder of how not too long ago Sherlock had been lost to the world and lost to him. He quickly pulls away from the direction his thoughts were heading and makes himself a cup of tea; resolutely ignoring why he didn't have one earlier. He settles himself down in his chair, feet up and takes a sip of tea allowing himself to unwind. He sighs and opens his book. Sometime later he thinks he hears the door open and close; but he is far too comfortable and engrossed to even acknowledge it.

Somewhere in his mind he knows that this is a dream. But it feels so real. Everything is so clear and yet fuzzy at the same time. Like peering into fog and only being able to see what is directly in front of you. It's different from his dreams of war. He feels adrenaline coursing through his veins and heat overcoming his body but not because of fear. This time it is because of the hands that touch and grasp his skin. The person almost possessively mapping out every detail of his flesh marking invisible lines of ownership with deft fingertips. A wicked mouth teases his body; nibbling and sucking his flesh causing him to groan. His body jolts pleasurably and hardens almost to the point of pain.

He kisses back against their lips, their movement's not a gentle meeting of mouths but a fight for dominance, lips embracing and fingers clasping; fuelled by a feeling of desperation that he has never felt. The other person tastes like something he has never known existed but tastes like home. He has kissed many women before but something about this kiss was different. The touches on his skin were strong and powerful, the body that he feels press against his had no soft curves that shudder under his finger tips or long hair that tickles his chest. Everything was hard, firm and strong. Two bodies claiming and marking each other with passionate ferocity; like animals rutting in heat. John tries to peer through the haze of his dream. To discover who this other person was who was causing him to go mad with desire. But no matter how hard he tries to focus on the persons face; he cannot see it. All he can do is continue to drown in the blissful sensations and pleasure overwhelming his body. He can feel the long fingers against his tongue as he caresses them; salty skin flooding his taste buds as he sucks them into his mouth. He can hear the harsh pants and pleasurable growls that echo from deep within the other person's chest. He reaches out to grasp at the person's hair; his fingers tickled by curly wild hairs that he grips and tugs, trying to warn them that he was too far gone. That he is close. He gives another yank to the hair clasped in his hand and this time the person allows themselves to be pulled up. His gaze is met by a pair of deep blue eyes and he knew.

" John…". He knew this person…

"JOHN!" Sherlock says, shaking the twitching and groaning man's shoulders that are clasped under his hands. He had come into the living room to see John groaning almost as if he was in pain; his heart rate and body temperature elevated. It must be another nightmare, Sherlock thinks, causing a dull thud in his chest at seeing John in distress. He shakes him again and moves his face closer to John's.

"Damn it, John! Wake up!" he roars.

"Sher….!" John gasps as he feels himself jolted from his dream by firm hands surrounding the top of his shoulders. He draws in a deep breath into his lungs and tries to calm his body down. His gaze darts frantically around the room in confusion before settling on the set of bright blue eyes before him. He can feel his stomach begin to churn at the look of gentle concern on his friend's face and the heat of Sherlock's hands on his shoulders. His fingers are brushing against his neck and his face is close. Far too close. John knows those eyes are the same from his dream, the same fingertips and lips that are now causing his arousal to press painfully against his trousers; thankfully hidden by his book. God… If Sherlock knew…if Mary knew…

Sherlock squeezes John's shoulders to draw his attention back to him.

"Are you alright, John?" he questions quietly; his voice a low rumble that permeates every fibre in John's body. He is so aware of Sherlock who is crouched in front of him; that his brain fumbles for a response.

"I…yes. I'm fine. Thank you Sherlock." He answers straining to keep his voice level and wills the thoughts of his dream away.

Sherlock stands releasing John's shoulders and tilts his head to the side; quietly contemplating him. In that moment John wills the universe to make Sherlock unable to see this one thing. To blind him to the real reason of why he can't draw enough breath into his lungs or why is his body is coursing with heat.

"Nightmare?" Sherlock asks and John fights the urge to sigh in relief.

"I err…something like that. Yes." He replies trying to avoid lying to Sherlock as much as possible. Sherlock studies John some more; he can tell that he is uncomfortable judging by the look on his face and suspects that John is trying to hide something from him. A futile effort on John's part; he can never hide much from Sherlock and he makes a promise to himself to find out. But for now he decides to ignore the feeling and focus on making John feel better; it's foreign to him. To see how John's distress moves him to the point of being willing to do almost anything to make him smile again. Feelings were most definitely strange and compelling things.

"Do you need anything?" he offers looking down at John's face flickering with too many emotions to decipher before settling on grateful. He looks down longingly at his half-full cup of tea and back up on Sherlock.

"A cup of tea wouldn't go amiss" he says a small smile that looks forced pulling up the corners of his mouth. Sherlock rolls his eyes at his request but moves to the kitchen taking John's cup with him.

"You do realise that the average British person drinks just under 3 cups of tea per day? That is 1,011 cups of tea per year. You, however John, drink according to my calculations approximately 1825 cups per year. It concerns me... I believe that you may have a problem." He quips from the kitchen; kettle boiling and the cutlery draw rattling as he makes John's tea. John realise Sherlock is trying to distract him and it works surprisingly. He huffs a genuine laugh at the idea that he is the one with an addiction problem but it is quickly diminished by the sickening feeling of guilt perforating his body.

He didn't know what to do. His…dream is something that he realises can never be a reality. If I wanted it to be, which I don't, he mentally adds to himself. Sherlock just isn't built that way. He is never intimate. He has never appeared to have an interest towards sex even when he literally had a naked woman stood right in front of him. He knows he can never be like that with Sherlock. And not just in a physical sense but any kind of intimacy. And that is just Sherlock. John, despite what people may or may not have talked about, had always believed that he was straight.

But now he is deeply confused. His dream had contained a very male and very real feeling Sherlock that his body appeared to have no problem with. Another wave of guilt rocks him as he remembers Mary. He cares deeply for Mary but staying with her when he was like experiencing this; it somehow felt like he was betraying her. He sighs and rubs an aggravated hand through his hair.

When had everything gotten so complicated? How had this bizarre and admittedly at times frustrating friendship that he honestly treasures turned into him wanting more than that? Or was that even what he wanted? Was he just happy to have Sherlock back in his life? Maybe he had just felt confused by Mary's words. His stomach jumped at the idea…did Mary perhaps think that John did have feelings towards Sherlock. Why is nothing ever simple with Sherlock? The thought immediately causes him to huff out loud. The word simple and Sherlock would never meet in such a context…idiot on the other hand. He is pulled from his musing by an elated shout of joy and Sherlock rushing into the living room; brandishing his phone in John's face and predictably holding no tea.

Sherlock whips it away before John has a chance to read it causing him to scowl at Sherlock who is pulling on his coat.

"We have a case! At last! I thought my mind was going to rot from boredom!" he states and wraps his scarf around his neck; practically vibrating with excitement. John smiles at the scene feeling tightness in his chest at being able to Sherlock like this again. Sherlock spins round and looks at John who isn't moving from his seat.

"John? Are you coming with me?" he asks sounding mostly impatient but John can hear that sliver of worry that perhaps John didn't want to.

"Always" he replies meaning it with every fibre of his being. Sherlock stills at John's words; a small smile tugging at the left side of his mouth and eyes softening at John as he pulls on his coat.

"Let's go then" he says his voice considerably softer and leads on down the stairs with John following close behind pushing his memories of his dream to the back of his mind. He still needed to work out what exactly it is he is feeling towards Sherlock; both for his sake and for Sherlock's and Mary's. But for now, they had a case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any errors are mine and for which I do apologise! So, if it turns out I do have readers that are lovely and take the time to review. I may just have to update within the next few days... :)
> 
> On another note I realise they haven't kissed yet but I believe that you will not have to wait long at all! Thank you for reading!


	9. A New Case

They arrive at the crime scene where the sight of a short portly man lying naked in an alleyway greets them. They nod and utter the usual greetings to Lestrade making their way over to the body. John looks over to Sherlock and immediately sees that talented brain of his whirring away. His eyes are scanning the body tracking every detail and no doubt committing them to mind with perfect ease. He allows himself a small smile at the sight before remembering the poor man lying in front of him and leans down to examine the body in closer detail.

Sherlock cannot deny the wave of happiness that makes his insides tighten when he sees John examining the body; his brow pinched and his deep blue eyes carefully inspecting. God, how he had missed this. He has missed working with John like this. He cannot help but feel slightly off balance somehow. Despite him finally having a case he finds it is not wholly consuming his mind as his previous cases. John still manages to capture his attention. He contemplates whether this is a because of his recent realisation of feelings for John or because of how much he has missed his companion. Deciding that it could be a little of both he leans over John in interest, the sense of nostalgia overpowering and intoxicating him, like strong liquor. Utterly addictive.

John watches the shadow of Sherlock fall over him and deliberately does not think about how close their bodies are at this point. He cannot deal with memories of this morning right now. He doubts whether he will ever be really ready to deal with them. But for now he puts them out of mind.

"John?" Sherlock's low and inquisitive voice floats down to his ears pulling him from his thoughts.

Clearing his throat John put on his best 'I-was-a-army-doctor-voice' determined to do his best for Sherlock. His desire to please Sherlock, to help him, is overwhelming despite the fact that Sherlock will most likely be able to see everything he does and more.

"He looks to around 40 years old. Hands look rough and calloused…so he probably works with them a lot. Heavily overweight…several cuts and small stabs to his body and arms…hmmm but none of them fatal." He murmurs cataloguing the body and tries hard not to miss anything.

"The killing blow was the one to his chest, most likely punctured a lung, he would have been dead in minutes. Poor man must have drowned in his own blood." He says while he checks his eyes and body rigidity.

"He looks to have been dead at least 12 hours so he must have died sometime late last night." He says shaking his head feeling sorry for the man who lay in front of him. He had seen a few soldiers go out like that and it wasn't a way for anyone to die. He draws himself back of his memories and frowns at the body. He is missing something and he knows it.

Then it clicks. "The killer must have an accomplice…he has to be at least 200 pounds…no way he was stripped and moved without help." He states with shaky confidence. He risks a glance over to Sherlock who eyes are slightly wide in his face looking suspiciously like he is surprised. It is no wonder John couldn't recognise that expression; he doesn't believe he has ever witnessed Sherlock looking like that. John squints at him in confusion wondering if he was completely off track and looks at Lestrade who is wearing a surprised smile.

"What?" He asks Lestrade who just laughs slightly and shrugs a shoulder.

"He must be rubbing off on you…" He says grinning and inclining his head towards Sherlock who is now wearing that small twist of smile on his lips.

"I am impressed John. There may be some hope for you after all." Sherlock drawls; the tone of his voice failing to mask the pleased look on his face. John feels a small bubble of excitement pop in his stomach and tries in vain to ignore the pride he feels at Sherlock's words. He does allow himself a small smile though.

"I don't think I will ever be as good as you, Sherlock." He chuckles which earns him an annoyed huff as if the very idea was insulting.

"Well that goes without saying, John".

"If you two love birds have quite finished…Sherlock. The body." Lestrade quips looking bemused. His arms are crossed and he looks like a parent scolding his two favourite children. Sherlock smirks and crouches near the body taking a deep breath no doubt to accommodate for the large amount of information that is about to pour out of him.

"Approximately 40% of homicides are committed using a kitchen knife, as it is a weapon accessible to practically everyone, which increases the likelihood of that being the murder weapon. Furthermore the lack of precision in the wounds suggests that the person using the weapon didn't know how to use it effectively. Not trained." He states with every syllable laced with that unwavering confidence. Lestrade just shakes his head in a fond if exasperated way and waits for Sherlock to continue.

"The knife is serrated judging by the cuts and the characteristic v-shape that wounds have made. Evidently where the attacker stabbed the victim and then the victim moved trying to fend him off. Most likely a bread knife or steak knife… the attacker was most likely in a fit of rage judging by the sporadic nature of the wounds. As John noted, the attacker most definitely had help moving the body. He wasn't found until this morning and judging by the tire tracks outside the alley he was moved by car last night. He most likely worked in a car garage, judging by the flecks of car paint on his upper neck and residue around his nails, he clearly painted cars for a living. Married, but not wearing his ring. Judging the position of love bites on his body and the length of time he has been married. Obviously not made by his wife so she is most likely the killer." He says standing up looking satisfied with his conclusion and looks at both John and Lestrade expectantly.

John huffs in slight disbelief and looks up at Sherlock. "How do you know they aren't from his wife?"

Sherlock resists the urge to roll his eyes. "Because he removed his ring."

"How do you know that whoever attacked him didn't take it?" He questions.

"Because he is still wearing his necklace." He replies giving John a clearly exasperated look.

"Ah." John nods although it's quite clear to Sherlock that he cannot see all of the connections he made.

An officer comes over and talks to Lestrade who looks at Sherlock looking pleased.

"Meet James Ford. The wife you mentioned? We contacted her boss and he told us that she called in sick. Odd that she didn't call us to report her husband's disappearance."

Sherlock quirks a smile at that. "Indeed".

"Then it's her. Text me when you have something more interesting, Lestrade. John." He calls and strides off with those long legs of his. John rolls his eyes at Sherlock's usual anti-social behaviour, although some small part of him pleased that Sherlock has not changed so much, and turns to say good bye.

"Wait a minute John. Do you and Sherlock fancy going for a drink sometime with me and Molly? Celebrate Sherlock coming back and everything?" Lestrade asks; his eyes lighting up when he mentions Molly's name.

Greg and Molly…huh, John thinks to himself. It makes him smile. He's happy for them and he thinks they may just work well together.

"You and Molly?" he repeats grinning broadly.

"Yeah well early days yet. Tomorrow night good for you?" Lestrade gives him an embarrassed smile.

He thinks about Sherlock and wonders if there is any force on earth that will convince him to go. But he looks at Lestrade's hopeful face and finds he can't let him down.

"I'd love to and well…I'll see what I can do about Sherlock." He promises with a bemused smile. He says goodbye to Greg and jogs up to where Sherlock is standing on the street somehow managing to look like he is sleeping with his eyes open.

"Sherlock. You ready to go home?" John asks deciding that it would be better to try and persuade him to come along once they were home.

Sherlock nods but looks like he's deep in thought again. They walk off and hail a cab. Sat side by side as they had so often done John turns to Sherlock smiling.

"That was excellent! Didn't miss a thing." He praises unable to resist the urge.

Sherlock turns to see John's delighted smile and feels compelled to return a small one of his own.

"Elementary" Sherlock teases but something is niggling in the back of his mind.

"I…I really was impressed John" he says looking at him clearly wanting an explanation.

He watches as John's face flushes slightly and he turns to look out of the window.

"Well…I used to practice...you know…" he answers clearing his throat uncomfortably. Numerous explanations were flickering through Sherlock's mind; making his chest constrict and his heart pick up pace

"Practice?" he asks tentatively.

"My seeing and observing" John chuckles although it sounds slightly forced and it just leaves Sherlock desperate for more data.

"Why?"

John shifts clearly uncomfortable with Sherlock's questions but he turns to look at Sherlock anyway subconsciously sucking his lower lip into his mouth in an anxious gesture. Sherlock's gaze follows the movement for some inexplicable reason before looking at John's eyes. They seem to scan his face as if John is committing it to his memory or perhaps because some part of him still couldn't believe Sherlock was really there in front of him.

"I wanted to keep some part of you with me…some part of you alive" he says hating how his voice always hitches whenever he thinks about that gravestone and Sherlock buried under the ground.

Sherlock feels his stomach tumble sickeningly and loathes his body's reaction. He wishes he was as numb to human emotion as he had once believed. If he was he wouldn't have to feel such a confusing array of emotions ambush him from every angle. John holds the power that no other human on earth does. He moves Sherlock and that unsettles him deeply. Everything he feels for John in that instance is so overwhelming and he has to clench his hand into fists to keep himself from grabbing John and holding him. He breathes deeply through his nose and forces himself to relax; preventing himself from being overcome and give in to everything he is feeling for John. He wants to reassure him that he had never left. That he had always been watching and making sure John was safe. But he doesn't; it's too soon and too much is at risk.

"You always said you were the only one who reads my website." He says voice strained and low. John allows a small wistful smile but doesn't reply. Sherlock holds John's gaze for a moment longer before looking out the window again.

"Thank you" he murmurs quiet enough that John almost thinks he imagined it but it makes his heart beat so very fast that he knows it was real.

He needs to figure what this morning meant because sitting next to his best friend while feeling this way is going to drive him insane. He is so aware of Sherlock and everything he is experiencing right now is making him think that maybe what he is feels for Sherlock is something more than friendship. That maybe what he is feeling is something more than what he feels for Mary causing guilt to wash over him. He feels fear permeate his mind because for all his denial there is a small voice in his head that keeps telling him that he knows its true and it just leaves him feeling so confused. He has no idea what to do next but when he looks over at Sherlock's profile he finds himself drawn to the sight of his face looking through the window intently. He feels a familiar warmth unfurl itself in his stomach and wonders for how long he has felt this way and never noticed. He needs to figure this out and soon. He just hopes both Sherlock and Mary will understand; he can't lose his best friend. Not again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who were expecting this case to draw out, I am sorry if you are disappointed. I wanted to add a case in because what is Sherlock without a case? But this story is character driven so you can expect to see alot more of that coming your way in the next chapter.
> 
> It means so much when people let me know what they think good or constructive so please leave me a review; you have no idea how motivating they can be! Thanks for reading and I will see you next chapter! :)


	10. Boredom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I have no bet so any errors are my own and I've corrected all the ones I could find!

When they get back in to the flat Sherlock swiftly hangs his trademark blue scarf and coat up and with his usual grace throws himself on the sofa with an irritated huff. John watches as Sherlock literally assaults the poor sofa with his long body and fails to hide his amusement at his dramatic pose.

"What's the matter with you?" he asks although he suspects that he already knows the answer.

"Bored!" Sherlock huffs out like a petulant child. Of course he is, John thinks.

"We just had a case, Sherlock." He replies patiently and watches as Sherlock removes his arm from his face to scowl at John's attempts to placate him.

"Oh please, John! That was barely a 4! I need something to occupy my mind or it will rust and become vacant like the rest of the people in the world." He rants, his arms gesturing wildly in front of him as he ignores the annoyed look John sends him at the implication that he is vacant.

"Where are all the clever ones!" he cries out and shoves his head into a pillow awaiting John's reply.

But John's too quiet, he peeks out from the pillow to see that his face has taken a solemn edge. Sherlock does not need his skills of deduction to know that he is thinking of Moriarty. He feels a twinge of guilt for causing that look on John's face. In the past he had always been able to keep himself distant from his emotions and those of others. Divorce himself from his feelings. But John…he's under his skin now. Connected to him. He wants to be even closer to John; he wants to learn things that he never felt were important before and explore every detail of John both physically and mentally. Perhaps I can use this time to my benefit he muses.

"Sorry…" he mumbles surprising John out his thoughts and continues "What shall we do for the rest of the day then?".

John starts slightly. Sherlock has never, ever, suggested that they do something together unless it was for a case; otherwise it was usually John who comes up with the suggestions. Combine that with the fact he just apologised and it makes John momentarily wonder if he is dreaming. He looks at Sherlock who is watching him back and can feel an excitement tingle throughout his body at the thought spending the day with Sherlock. To have his complete attention is something very rare and at the same time very daunting. Then an idea clicks into place in his mind and he moves in front of Sherlock unable to hide his slightly mischievous smile.

"Cluedo?" Sherlock asks eyeing John's mischievous grin and the way he is rocking on his heels. He takes in the image and vehemently ignores the word cute that's trying to press its way into his mind.

"No! Definitely not." John half shouts shuddering at the horror he went through the last time they played it. Never again.

"What then?" Sherlock asks his curiosity piqued as John's smile grows wider and he gains a triumphant glint in his dark blue eyes.

"I have a different game in mind and the winner gets to give the loser one order that he has to follow! Any order at all." John says with glee and quells the urge to rub his hands together. He knows exactly what game they can play that John has a shot at winning and this way he can get Sherlock to go with him to meet Lestrade and Molly.

Sherlock feels himself go uncharacteristically still at John's words. He has to follow… A million possibilities are flowing through his mind. He could make John give him his cigarettes. Or he could finally finish his experiments on human eyes. John still wouldn't let him microwave them. He could make John walk around naked for the entire day. He lingers on that particular thought. He could make John kiss him… he could make John…do anything. He swallows heavily and wonders why his thoughts have moved so quickly to sex. He had never been interested before and now ever since his realisation his fingers itch to touch. This opportunity is just too good to pass up.

Unknown to Sherlock John's mind is going to similar thoughts causing his body to heat with a peculiar combination of want and guilt. The idea that he can get Sherlock to do anything if he agrees is tantalising. He wonders if the eyes he had seen in his dreams, dark with want and so very human, would be the same if he were to make Sherlock kiss him. He would never force Sherlock to kiss him but he finds that now the thoughts have entered his mind. They are refusing to budge.

"What game is it?" Sherlock asks noting the pink tinge across John's cheeks and the way he avoids his eyes causing him to wonder what he is thinking about.

"Trivial Pursuit" John replies crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow at the puzzled look on Sherlock's face.

"What's that? Why would I want to play anything that is trivial?" Sherlock questions although he sits up on the sofa clearly interested.

"It's a general knowledge quiz and the more answers you get right the more likely you are to win." John answers with a challenging look on his face daring Sherlock to say yes.

Sherlock immediately realises that he has no chance at winning; all the information he will need is most likely deleted and John's head is probably full of it.

"No." he answers curtly.

"Why not?" John questions as he realises that telling Sherlock about the game was probably not the best move.

"Because you know you will win, so I see no point in playing. Besides it sounds…tedious." He replies standing up and narrowing his eyes at the scheming doctor stood in front of him. Clearly he wants to Sherlock to do something that he thinks he can't get him to do just by asking. John shifts under his gaze but continues to argue his point.

"Oh so is it too much for the Great Sherlock Holmes to handle? A simple quiz game and an 'average' mind". He goads willing Sherlock to take the bait.

Sherlock roll his eyes at how obvious John is being and retorts "John, you are far from average".

This causes John's mouth to snap shut, his reply lost and he looks at Sherlock who stares back. The seconds tick by and he can feel his heartbeat rocket when he realises that neither one of them has looked away. People who are friends don't look at each other like this and for this long. He finally breaks his eyes away from that hypnotic gaze and clears his throat nervously.

"Rock paper scissors?" Sherlock suggests seemingly oblivious to the strangeness of their lingering eye contact. He remembers when John had explained it to him after he saw some children playing it. Of course it made no logical sense there is no way a piece of paper could actually beat rock…

"No" John answers back almost as quickly as he did at the suggestion of Cluedo; which Sherlock still did not understand he hadn't been that bad.

"Why not?" he asks puzzled at John's rejection at his choice of game.

"Because you cheat" John replies making his way to the kitchen. The conversation had evidently increased his need for tea immensely.

Sherlock stands watching John pull out two mugs and clatter around the kitchen avoiding Sherlock's experiments with care.

"I do not cheat! I merely observe" he responds indignantly at the accusation that he would even need to cheat.

"Well that is cheating in my book" John says not looking up as he steeps the bags vaguely realising that they are bickering like an old married couple.

"Well your book is wrong." Sherlock answers accepting the now finished tea and makes his way to the armchair opposite John's.

He looks up when John laughs a little and shakes his head. "Right because you…what was it? 'You observe everything and then deduce everything, eliminate the impossible and whatever is left must be the truth'."

He really is the only one who reads my website, Sherlock thinks letting a smile pull at his face. The fact that John had even bothered to read it let alone remember what he put makes him ridiculously happy. The fact that it makes him so happy also makes him feel slightly nauseous; when had be become so emotional?

Of course he will never admit anything to that effect and merely replies with a smirk "That's because it works and it annoys you that I can predict what you are going to pick even before you know".

"Why are we even arguing about this?"John asks smiling into his tea.

"I have no idea." Sherlock answers finding John's happy face infectious.

"You shock me." John answers dryly.

Sherlock puts his tea down and steeples his fingers together in preparation to interrogate his friend.

"You have some ulterior motive for suggesting that game and those specific conditions. Don't you?" he calmly accuses relishing in John's reaction.

"No I don't!" John denies, taking another big sip of his tea and looking anywhere but Sherlock.

Sherlock decides to not draw this charade out any longer. "This wouldn't have anything to do with Lestrade and Molly would it?"

"How do you even…" John asks trailing off in amazement.

Sherlock decides not to dignify that with a verbal response and settles for raising an eyebrow expectantly. John rolls his eyes and chides himself for believing he could get anything past Sherlock.

"Fine, yes. Greg invited us out for a drink to celebrate with him and Molly that you're... you're back." John explains avoiding the word alive.

Sherlock lets out a small hum but otherwise says nothing causing John to break the silence again.

"So will you?" he asks.

"Will I what?" Sherlock asks knowing that he is being deliberately obtuse.

"Will you come?" John asks with an exasperated huff.

"I would rather watch day time TV with Mrs Hudson" he drawls hating the thought of a crowded pub. But then he looks at John's pleading face and suddenly the prospect of going doesn't seem so bad. Damn.

"Is that a no?" John asks hesitantly. "Come on, Sherlock! It will be fun."

"Fine…" he concedes but only for the prospect of seeing John drunk.

"Please! We can only stay for a while if you really hate it...wait what?" John enquires with a slightly dopey expression on his face; which is not particularly endearing.

"I said fine, John." Sherlock repeats stressing the word 'fine'.

"I heard you I just…"he says looking slightly shell-shocked.

"What? I can be sociable" Sherlock bristles knowing that he is anything but sociable.

"I just…wow. Ok. Brilliant." John smiles sitting back in his chair.

"Good." Sherlock nods accepting his fate frowning when John's mobile rings knowing who the caller must be.

"Oh hello, Mary" he answers getting up from his seat sending an apologetic look to Sherlock and moves up to his bedroom.

Mary, he had almost forgotten her. John's girlfriend. The outlying variable. She had been pleasant enough when he had met her but the reality is that she is going to take John away from him. She has rights to John that that he can never claim to possess. She is a part of John's heart, his body and his mind. His throat tastes bitter to his tongue and his muscles tense as he thinks about everything John and Mary must have done together. He contemplates everything he wants from John and the likelihood that he can attain it. He needs to face this realistically. And for the first time in a long while Sherlock is unsure if John will pick him and that uncertainty is as venomous and unyielding as poison. It perforates his mind.

John makes his way to his bedroom listening to Mary talk to him about her day and asks after Sherlock.

"He's fine, thank you Mary." He replies warmly.

"Good, so are you free tomorrow night?" she asks her voice a pleasant distraction from his thoughts of Sherlock.

"I'm going out with Sherlock tomorrow night to meet up with Lestrade and Molly, how about the day after?" He asks.

"That sounds fine. Who are Lestrade and Molly?" She replies her voice taking on a curious tone.

"Lestrade is the D.I that gets Sherlock to help with his cases sometimes" he replies remembering how Greg had turned down his promotion not wanting to get stuck behind a desk.

"Molly is the coroner who helped Sherlock to fake his death." He answers hating the sharp spike of jealousy shoot through him at remembering that Molly was the one who had helped Sherlock. He wishes it could have been him. But he has no right to feel like this especially with Mary on the other end of the phone.

"Ah. Well I hope you all have fun" she says genuinely causing John to belatedly realise that he hadn't even thought to invite her.

"You could join us if you like?" he offers hating how it sounds like the afterthought that it is and the sick feeling he gets. He knows that Mary deserves better than how he has been treating her.

"No that's alright, I wouldn't want to interrupt. You guys catch up and I'll see you the day after tomorrow. See you then. Good night, John" she says sweetly causing another ripple of guilt in John.

"Good night, Mary". He answers hanging up and drops the phone on the bed. He sits down on the edge of the mattress wondering if he can ignore everything that has happened and just be content with Mary. He wonders whether or not he can repress all of the confusing feelings and thoughts he has been experiencing towards Sherlock lately. He makes his way back down stairs, his mind a jumble of thoughts, and finds Sherlock sat very still in his chair. His brow is creased with a frown and he looks almost sad.

"Sherlock? Is everything alright?" John asks moving slightly closer wondering what could have happened. Sherlock looks up at him sharply and pointedly ignores the question.

"How is Mary?" he asks his tone almost too neutral.

Puzzled he replies almost hesitantly "She's fine. I'm going to see her the day after tomorrow".

He leaves out the part where he has decided that he is going to be honest with Mary and try to understand what he is feeling. Try to get her to explain why she said that Sherlock loved him and understand why everything has changed since Sherlock has come back. He knows that if what he feels towards Sherlock is something more than friendship that he can't stay with Mary no matter much he may want to convince himself otherwise. He doesn't want to hurt her and he won't lie to her either.

"You should have invited her to come with us tomorrow night" Sherlock answers again in that emotionless tone causing John to raise an eyebrow. This isn't like Sherlock.

"I did ask but she didn't want to interrupt so we agreed to meet up the day after." John explains wondering why his voice has taken on an almost reassuring tone like he is trying to soothe a wounded animal.

"Did Lestrade text you back about the case this morning?" he asks wanting to change the subject.

"Jealous wife killed her husband…Lestrade has arrested her. Predictable." He answers feeling like there is a certain irony to the case.

"I suppose you and Mary will be getting more serious now, considering the length of time you have been dating?" He asks looking directly at John who finds he cannot hold that gaze.

He tries to pass it off as a joke ignoring the tight twist of his insides.

"I don't know. Why are you worried you will have to find something else to keep you occupied?" he asks forcing a small chuckle from his throat.

"John, although I admit that when you are not here it does compounds my boredom. You know as well as I do that I want you here because you are my friend". He answers unable to stop the small tone of sadness that creeps into his voice. And I'll miss you, he mentally adds, allowing a small spike of resentment towards John for making him feel like this.

John falters under the deadly combination of that sentence and the hurt sound of Sherlock's voice.

"I'm not going anywhere Sherlock" he says quietly meaning every word sitting down in front of him to capture his gaze.

"Aren't you? You and Mary have been seeing each other for a substantial amount of time and it will be only natural that you will decide to move out". He doesn't add 'leaving me'.

"You'll live with her, get married and have a family. And you'll naturally no longer want to associate yourself with someone who could put you and your family in danger".

He says unable to stop from voicing the concerns that have been building up inside him since the day he had seen Mary. Since he had gotten those texts from Mycroft and had seen first hand how John was around Mary. The pain it causes in him when thinks about how his only friend would soon leave him and how he will never be able to have the chance to see how deep his feelings go.

John shakes his head in disbelief. He couldn't believe Sherlock thought that he could leave him. Before Sherlock had come back he had considered those things. He had considered moving in with Mary and maybe even one day getting married. But now? Now the idea of leaving Sherlock causes a sharp ache in his chest and he realises that he actually cannot leave him. He will stay with him for as long for as Sherlock wants him around and it was as simple as that. He had experienced what it was like to live in a world without Sherlock. He never wanted to feel that way again.

"That is why you're saying all this? You are worried that I'm going to leave?" he asks out wanting to verify that this is what Sherlock's saying. That he hasn't misunderstood.

Sherlock bristles realising how much of his feelings he is giving away and tries to rectify it replying icily "Don't be preposterous John."

An odd thought flickers through John's mind. One created mostly from a mix of insanity, his recent dreams about Sherlock and maybe a little bit of hope.

"Are you…" he starts. He feels so ridiculous for even entertaining the notion. "Are you jealous?"

Memories of Mycroft's smug texts come flooding back at John's words and immediately annoy Sherlock.

"John please…I do not experience such petty emotions". He huffs in exasperation glaring at John to defy his answer.

"Sherlock?" he questions and is forced to continue when Sherlock is obviously not going to dignify him with an answer. His only reply a steely glare.

"That's it isn't it? Sherlock…I am and always will be your friend." He says trying to comfort him the best he can.

Sherlock smiles at John's earnest face that clearly shows he believes every word and it makes his chest ache. He had never wanted a relationship before. He had never wanted intimacy. It made people weak and distracted them. But now he finds that he has never wanted to claim someone as much as he does now. He wants John. All of him. He will not share John. It's not enough that they are just friends. But he is struck by the futility of his feelings and feels anger that he will not act on them. That he cannot openly declare his feelings because he fears that it will drive John further from him.

It is some small comfort to know that on some level John finds him attractive. He also knows that he cares for him and that he trusts him with his life. However he is painfully aware that if he kissed John now that the only response he would receive would be rejection. This is why he never dabbled in relationships. There is always too much pain.

"But that won't keep you here will it?" He answers softly looking at John's hurt face. He gets up tugging on his coat and scarf needing to clear his mind.

"Where…where are you going?" John asks standing up unable to shake the image of Sherlock's face or the rumble of his sad voice. The sheer hopelessness of his expression; he never wants to see that look again.

"Out". Sherlock replies with a sharp click of his mouth and refuses to turn around. He walks out the door leaving John desperately confused. He looks around the room hoping for an explanation and feels his heart beating frantically in his chest.

'He really loves you…'. He hadn't believed it, not really, but now he wonders if there was a chance that Sherlock did. He had wanted to stop Sherlock and pull him into a tight hug. To comfort him and reassure him that he would never leave. He wanted to take that miserable face into his hands, pull him close and…and what? To tell him he loved him? Does he? Does Sherlock even…?

He groans in frustration rubbing an agitated hand through his blonde fluffy hair. He admits to himself that he is attracted to Sherlock. He remembers vividly how he felt when Sherlock had touched his chest, how much his dream had affected him and how inexplicably drawn to Sherlock he is. But does he want to be with him? Would Sherlock even want that?

He needs to understand what is going on inside that curly haired head of Sherlock's. Maybe he can loosen his tongue with a few drinks tomorrow and although he has no idea how he is going to get Sherlock to actually consume alcohol. It was the only plan he had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had intended there to be slash so much earlier in this story but my brain just wouldn't let me. For those who do enjoy a slow build but are ready for John's and Sherlock's slashy ship to sail. Prepare yourself for the next chapter.
> 
> Thank you for reading! :)


	11. Drunken Touch

They are about two streets from the pub walking in an uncomfortable silence. The memory of yesterday is clearly occupying their minds. When Sherlock had returned to the apartment, he had been quiet and withdrawn, quickly whisking himself away to his room. John had managed to coax him out eventually but it is evident that both men are hurt and confused.

John looks at Sherlock, the sharp features of his face standing out vividly under the street lights, wondering how he can fix this. If he can fix this…

They enter the pub and immediately see Molly practically vibrating in her seat. She waves her arms at them and ushers them over with a happy smile. Sherlock gives a polite nod and John returns her wave smiling at Lestrade. They arrive at the table and Greg orders some sweet-smelling shots that immediately have Sherlock grimacing. He looks at John who lines up his in front of him and offers Sherlock a small, shy smile.

Molly looks between them nervously and John can tell she is worried about whether he is mad at her for not telling him. He decides it is better to get it out the way now so that they can enjoy the evening. He wants to celebrate the fact that Sherlock is here with them and not linger in the past year.

"Molly, I want to thank you, for helping Sherlock. I…it can't have been easy for you. So thank you" he says awkwardly trying hard to not let his words tinge with any jealously he may be unwillingly feeling. All he wants to feel towards Molly is gratitude and friendship. If it wasn't for her...John doesn't even want to think about it.

Molly's bright smile slips into a more solemn expression and she quickly flicks her eyes between Sherlock and John. Sherlock can feel some of that tightness of his body unwind at John's words. He watches John carefully. He sees how John's body tenses as he speaks; his eyes shine and crinkle kindly towards Molly. The way his voice is ever so slightly lowers and has a deep, delicate tremble that is almost too faint to hear. Sherlock doesn't need to comprehend all of the complexities of human emotion to understand how grateful John really is. He can feel how much John cares and it banishes any doubt in his mind. John will stay with him. He will not share him. He will not watch John from the shadows and fade from his life. No matter how much pain he may cause Mary or even John. He will make him see how much he cares for Sherlock and he will do everything that he is capable of to return the sentiment.

Sherlock tears his eyes from John to see Molly watching them; curious and warm but with none of that adoration that she had previously held. Instead it is directed at Greg who returns it warmly, both of them looking so indisputably happy.

"I am uncertain if I fully expressed my gratitude to you at the time given the…situation. But I…you have my sincerest thanks." Sherlock adds genuinely grateful to Molly. Without her, he would not have been able to ensure his and everyone's security, and he would not have been able to return home. She needed to know that she matters.

Molly's face turns a delightful shade of red, causing Greg's eyes to light up, and she ducks her head with embarrassment.

"I…that is…your very welcome, both of you. It's good to see you again, Sherlock." She says biting her lip nervously and smiles warmly at him. She then turns to smile at Greg and he squeezes her hand in approval. Before she would have stared at Sherlock with unrequited affection but now she only had eyes for Greg. It makes John incredibly happy to see them both looking so loved up but it also serves as a reminder of his current predicament. He can feel Sherlock's side pressed up against his and he looks at Sherlock who does one of his small genuine smiles. All memory of yesterday seemingly gone. The sight causes him to down one of his shots quickly in an attempt to distract himself from the dazzling vision. An action he immediately regrets as the sweet taste, briefly reminding him of cherry, fades and his throat burns. He starts to cough into a fist, one eye squeezed shut, as he tries to quell the burn.

"Hey, no starting without us John! You alright?" Greg chides playfully. He grabs one of his shot glasses and indicates that everyone should do the same. Sherlock picks up his glass gingerly examining the shot glass distastefully. He is hardly compelled to consume a toxic liquid that can cause short-term memory loss and destroy vital neurons. John has also done nothing to decrease his revulsion by choking on the foul-smelling liquid. For what possible purpose can people find to consume this? He wonders to himself. He looks around the room hoping for some indication as to the purpose of this activity. All around the room there is people laughing and leaning into one another. Some people look to be completely inebriated; half unconscious and drooling on their tables. Others appear to use the substance as an excuse to lose all inhibitions. A large number had taken to groping and kissing in a manner that Sherlock is certain is not suitable for public display. He looks at John and wonders whether he will become more acceptable of touching Sherlock if he consumes more alcohol. His eyes have already begun to take a glassy look and his grin that he directs at Sherlock is completely charming and open. It is utterly disarming.

John picks us his second shot glass determined to get Sherlock to loosen up and pliable for questioning. He watches as he eyes the glass with an expression that can only be described as pure disgust and suspicion. It is vaguely reminiscent of the look he had often seen directed at Mycroft. John decides he is having none of that.

"To Sherlock" he says putting on what he hopes is his best smile and raises his glass towards Sherlock. He sees Sherlock's expression falter for a moment before he slowly extends his glass towards John chinking the glasses together. He does the same to Molly's and Greg's and throws the liquid down his throat. If he experiences any unpleasant sensations John can't see it. Sherlock's face is as cool as ever except for the slight twitch of the muscle in his jaw.

Sherlock fights to keep his face straight after consuming what had felt like liquid fire down his oesophagus. The cherry taste does nothing to soothe his palette and he is fighting the urge chuck the rest in Greg's face as he orders more for the table. He quells the urge to let his mouth hang open in shock. How many of these did these insane people expect him to consume?

However John directs another one of his disarming smiles towards him and picks up the shot glasses. He is laughing at something Greg is saying and Sherlock finds that the urge to complain leaves him.

The rest of the evening goes well. Sherlock is surprised at the fun he had regardless of how pointless the evening actually was. Molly had typically fumbled over her words and blushed furiously whenever she made a tasteless joke. Greg spent most of the evening fawning over her, oblivious to her poor taste in humour, clearly enamoured. John had laughed a lot this evening. He gave frequent little chuckles and a couple of full blown laughing fits that caused him to clutch at his sides in pain wiping tears from his eyes.

Throughout the evening John had become much more tactile. He would sling his arm around Sherlock's shoulder to pull him close and whisper something in his ear. Or nudge him playfully with a sharp elbow to the ribs and rubbing an apologetic hand on his thigh. Sherlock had revelled in the touch that from anyone else would revile him. He had also become much less inhibited allowing his face to display more of his feelings. He smiled and laughed more. He even went as far as to hug both Greg and Molly when it was time for him and John to leave causing them both to start in surprise. When he pulled away John had this warm expression on his face that was a mixture of pride and…something else that Sherlock could not recognise. It felt warm and familiar. It had caused his stomach to swirl although admittedly that could have also been due to the copious amounts of alcohol he had consumed.

So now he is walking down the street one arm slung over his shorter friend as they both stumble down their street back to their apartment. John's arm is slung around his waist since he would not be able to reach Sherlock's shoulder without him bending down a considerable amount. Sherlock finds John's height to be very appealing even if slightly inconvenient. They reach a street that is familiar to Sherlock but he finds he cannot recall it. A fact that would have been troubling if it wasn't for John's elated shout. He pulls himself away from Sherlock's grip and laughs sprinting off.

"Come on Sherlock!" he yells sprinting considerably well despite his obvious blood alcohol level and Sherlock realises why John is running. He chases after him letting out a delighted laugh following the path they had once taken to find their way back home. The path they had run that very first time they had met. His body is alight with endorphins and nostalgia as he follows his friend down the streets of London. His body pumps with adrenaline and his long legs soon catch up to John. They soon make it back to the flat and stand backs pressed up against the wall of the hallway. Sherlock can feel his heart pounding and his body feels wonderfully alive. Sherlock's mind is clouded but is also somehow painfully aware. He is so conscious of John's side pressed against his. The small, panting sounds his breathing makes causes his blood to rush downwards and his fingers clench.

John looks at Sherlock watching him. Sherlock looks practically feral. His hair is wilder than ever from the wind whipping it around from their run back home. His broad chest his moving quickly and his eyes are dark. John licks his lips involuntarily. It was easier to admit his attraction when he is like this. When his mind is blank and his body is left to feel without inhibition.

Sherlock watches John's lips as he wets them with his tongue calling to mind a vivid memory of John sucking stray bits of sweet alcohol from his fingertips. He hadn't lied to Mycroft when he had said that sex didn't alarm him. It didn't him. Previously it had disgusted him. To him it was a messy act both physically and emotionally. Unnecessary information. But now the need to touch, to feel and find release was almost painful.

Adrenaline making his thoughts jumbled and brave; he moves closer to John. His long arms press against the wall enclosing the smaller man in. John looks up at Sherlock's face that is so close now. He can taste the sweet, sharp flavour of alcohol on his breath and the sheer heat radiating from Sherlock's body. It happens suddenly. One moment they are watching each other. Bodies painfully close but not touching. Lips grazing and breaths mingling. The next Sherlock pushes his lips against his and they are kissing ferociously, ravishing each other's mouths. It's not timid or hesitant. It's powerful and possessive.

Sherlock, even drunk, is a fast learner and John is not shy about teaching him. He mimics John's movements as their mouths open. Their tongues making hot, wet caresses causing shivers and low groans in both men. Sherlock's senses come alight with John's touch and the sounds he is making. He loves the way he looks when Sherlock pulls back, just to see him. His face utterly open and wanting. He rushes back to John's mouth grinding himself harder against him. He pushes a long-fingered hand under John's jumper revelling in the shudders that it causes and threads his other through John's hair. It's soft and just long enough for him to grasp and tug so he can nuzzle his face into the soft skin of his neck. He presses wet kisses to the side of John's neck noting the breathy groans he emits when he sucks at the tender skin.

John pushes past Sherlock's thick coat and shirt, offended by the layers he covers his body with, and slips his hands up his shirt. He runs his hands firmly over his muscular back as Sherlock continues to attack his neck with sharp nips and soothing wet licks of his warm tongue. Soon the urge to kiss Sherlock again overpowers him and he threads one hand through his curly hair tugging his downwards. Sherlock meets his lips with a low growl that makes John jerk his hips into Sherlock's. John finds it hard to believe that Sherlock is a virgin. But he cannot imagine Sherlock any other way. The confidence in his movements and the way he maps John's body is so utterly Sherlock.

Sherlock feels a deep rumble in his chest as John presses his hips into his and feels how aroused he is. The urge to feel John's naked body against his is overpowering and he wants, for the first time, to know what it is like to drive into another person. To know what it is like to breach that barrier and become connected. To pleasure them with your body and imprint yourself in their flesh. But he is so very afraid that if John lets him become close that he will never want to leave. That he will become hopelessly addicted as he is to this kiss. His first kiss and its John's. He's John's.

They pull away and look at each other. They can barely breathe. They take in shuddering and gasping breaths. Their grip on each other's bodies is tight and powerful. John looks into Sherlock's eyes; bluer and darker then he has ever seen them and he suddenly remembers that these are not the eyes he should be looking into. Mary's eyes are green and he is with Mary. What is he doing? John feels guilt begin to drown out his current lust as he realises what he has done. He never intended to betray Mary like this. He pushes away from Sherlock putting a shaking hand to his mouth and begins to pace the hall. He desperately tries to ignore the taste of Sherlock on his lips and stops to stare at him helplessly.

"Why?" he asks; his voice sounding so broken and full of some nameless emotion. It cuts through Sherlock and all he can do is stare blankly at John. His mind is dumb with alcohol and is trying to comprehend how they went from kissing to this.

"I…I don't do this, Sherlock! I don't cheat. God Mary…Why Sherlock? Why did you kiss me?" he demands again.

His mind is a jumble of voices that are trying to shout over each other. Some want Sherlock to tell him that he has feelings for him. That he wants John and that's why he kissed him. Other scream in harsh, cruel voices that Sherlock could never feel that way and it was only an experiment. The rest are just crying about Mary and how she deserves better. How he could have been happy with her. How he isn't even supposed to be gay.

Sherlock stands there, his body thrumming with alcohol and endorphins no doubt affecting his brain performance. John's eyes are shining with tears and he is looking at Sherlock so desperately. Clearly he needs Sherlock to give him the right answer. But at Mary's name. All he can think of is how he has made a grievous mistake. How he may have lost his only friend. He finds that this one time. No matter is resolution to keep John. He realises that attraction is not love. And to admit it now would leave him so completely vulnerable for rejection. John will pick Mary because she is who he is supposed to pick. She is the easier choice. The one expected of him and who can give him everything he wants. Although perhaps not what he needs Sherlock can't tell him the truth. He cannot give John the answer he wants.

" I…I don't know…" he croaks.

"You don't know?" John laughs bitterly; the sound sharp and it cuts through Sherlock.

"You don't know! You never 'don't know' anything Sherlock. You always have a reason for everything. So I'm going to ask you again. Why?" he demanded his mind clearing from rage and guilt.

Sherlock answers the only thing he can without giving too much away.

"It seemed like a good idea…" he answers desperate to argue that John seemed to enjoy it. That he kissed him back.

"Seemed like a…? Argghh! I'm going to bed." He cries out and angrily stumbles his way upstairs slamming the door behind him. He leans against it fighting the urge to cry. He knows he kissed Sherlock back. But he never wanted it to happen like this. He slowly climbs to his room; the images of their kiss the only thing in his mind.

Sherlock stands in the hall swaying on the spot. He licks his lips tasting cherry and something intrinsically John. His head hurts and his chest aches painfully. He tries to pinpoint where he has gone wrong. Where his error has been but all he can recall is how perfect that kiss had been and how he wants so much more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed the kissing and angst! I won't be able to update this week as I have to prepare for an interview. So hopefully this will keep you all going until next week!
> 
> Reviews are love and are so wonderful to read! Please give this author two minutes of your time and let me know what you thought!
> 
> Thanks, take care. -Poet.


	12. Endings and Beginnings

John does not leave his room for most of the following day and his friend's absence serves as a pertinent reminder of the previous evening. Sherlock represses the urge to drag him out and demand that he speak to him. He stays silent, unsure of how to proceed, and so very afraid of the damage he may have caused. He wonders if it is irreparable; if the first true friendship he has built with another living soul has been lost. He tries to distract himself. His fingers tinker with a half-hearted determination at his experiment while his mind ponders on John.

Everything had been so utterly primal and simple. Sherlock had degraded himself to his most basic form; to be driven by his most primitive need. It should have terrified and disgusted him. But it had felt wondrous and he craves more. However his error is a constant within his mind and stops him from acting on his affections again. He isn't used to doubt. It is a needless emotion. But now he is engulfed by it. They had wanted each other and they took action.

Now all he thinks about is the shame that was echoed in the sea-blue depths of John's eyes. His face was awash with shock and anger as he had looked at Sherlock. He cannot bear to ever see John look at him that way again. Sherlock cannot understand all of the variables. He cannot comprehend the notion of being 'gay' or that John was with Mary. He only understands one fact that he wants John. That is all he cares about knowing. But to John everything else matters so very much.

He finds he cannot predict John's course of action. Will he want to leave? Or will he somehow understand the meaning behind Sherlock's actions and comprehend what Sherlock can barely understand. That Sherlock wants John. Loves him, perhaps not in the way ordinary people love, but love all the same.

His ears strain for any sound coming from upstairs and his heart thuds frantically in his chest. He can hear the weary footsteps of his flatmate trudge, almost hesitantly, down the stairs. John sighs wearily, dreading seeing Sherlock again, and what he has to say to Mary. He had reorganised their date for this afternoon and after a morning of replaying over everything he finally came to terms with what he had to do. There had always been an elephant in the room regarding Sherlock's and his relationship. He had always ignored his previous girlfriend's comments on how he would always put Sherlock before them. How he can never stay mad at Sherlock and will follow him anywhere no matter the danger. He certainly isn't ready to deal with it until he has seen Mary but he finally acknowledges it. He knows he can't keep lying to Mary and is going to do the right thing.

He had never felt so lost. He had always considered himself straight. Not it the literal sense; broader than that. He always knew himself, understood his direction in life and was always frank. Always honest. And yet Sherlock had bombarded his way into his life and now he finds that he doesn't know himself as well as he thought. He hadn't comprehended that his life could ever be like this. That he would feel so much for one individual. It truly frightens him. He is so deeply entrenched in Sherlock's life and he in his; he knows that if he takes this step. If he tries to become something more with Sherlock then…if he ever did lose Sherlock again…well…he doesn't believe he could cope with it a second time.

He makes his way to the kitchen and looks up to meet the gaze of Sherlock who looks, for want of any other description, petrified. His pale blue eyes are wide and startled; lacking any of their former certainty and mischief. Sherlock is the first to look away and his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. John, however, cannot tear his eyes from Sherlock's profile. He is desperate to understand his motivations. Why did you kiss me? He wants to grab Sherlock by the shoulders and shake him until he gets some answers.

Instead he tells him, voice firm and steady, masking any emotion he might be feeling.

"I'm going out…I'll be back in about an hour or so". He tells him and waits for Sherlock to respond. However he makes no sign that he has even heard him. John can't help but feel slightly wounded by Sherlock's indifference and leaves without saying anything else.

He pulls his coat tighter around himself as the cool air hits his body and walks numbly towards where Mary will be waiting. His thoughts are still only of Sherlock.

Sherlock fights the urge to sweep his experiment of the table onto the floor. He could not respond to John. Fear had captivated him and held him prisoner. The need to destroy, images of Mary flicker in his mind, something is overwhelming. He is not a fool. He knows that John has gone to see Mary, no doubt to see if he can move in as soon as possible, his fingers tremble. He notes it with an peculiar detached feeling; an interesting bodily reaction.

His heart rate picks up and his breathing is shallow. His eyes sting and he finds that his throat has become tight. He catalogues everything and detests it. Amongst his physiological reactions he notices that his craving for nicotine has increased exponentially. He abandons his experiment and grabs his stash of nicotine patches. He applies rows of them up his arm and thinks hard about how he can get John to forgive him. How he can keep him. Sherlock refuses to succumb to something so base as melancholy; he will use his vast intellect and tenacity to overcome this problem. As he always does. He lies back on the sofa, his dark curls contrasting against the lighter fabric of the sofa, and ignores the niggling doubts that hiss like vipers in his mind.

John sits across from Mary who is smiling tentatively and John absently realises that he has not said anything since greeting her. The air around them is tense and John can't help but feel guilty for what he is about to do.

"What did you mean when you said that?" John asks, unaware of how vague his question is, his mind completely focused on the memory of Mary's words.

"Said what?" She replies looking puzzled at his words.

John shifts uncomfortably in his seat and allows his gaze roam anywhere around the small cafe but on Mary.

"When you said that, Sherlock loves me". He reiterates and finds the courage to look directly at her. Mary's gaze turns wistful and a small sad smile finds her face.

"So you can see it now". She says and calmly takes a small of tea.

"I…I don't…" He starts but Mary carries on talking as if he had never spoken.

"Yes…I think you do, John." She says firmly placing her hand over his causing a small tremor to crawl up his arm.

"I…we were drunk and suddenly he just…just kissed me. And I kissed him back…." He huffs out a somewhat disbelieving, hysterical laugh and continues.

"But I'm not even…God. I'm so sorry Mary. I never intended to hurt you like this. I do love you." He tells her, squeezing her hand, and takes in the slight watering of her eyes. In this moment he hates himself even more for causing her pain. Guilt and anger towards himself and Sherlock are overwhelming him. Mary sniffs slightly and sends another smile in his direction but it's fractured and tight.

"The sad thing is John I know you do… but there is a reason for what happened, John. The kind of love you have for me and the love you have for Sherlock…it's. No, let me finish". She says holding up a hand to John's open mouth.

"No matter what kind of relationship you want to pursue with him. He will always be the one constant in your life that you cannot be without. I know…I know because I felt the same way about Daniel. I've seen how you are with each other. And as cheesy as it sounds…you complete each other. And I'm not even mad that you kissed him, John. I have every reason to be. But if anything I'm jealous". She says smiling genuinely now and releases his hand to sit back in her seat.

John can feel his mouth open and close a few times before he can even muster the brain power to reply.

"Jealous?" Is all he can ask causing Mary to shake her head a little before looking directly at him; the severity of her gaze making him unable to look away.

"You don't even know how lucky you are. The man you love came back. Don't waste that. Please, don't waste that. And promise me... that we will still be friends? I'd hate to lose you, John". She asks hope radiating from her face.

John can feel all the air leave his body in one great rush as the meaning of Mary's words hit him. She is right. John has a chance that is rarely ever given and he has two options before him. He can ignore his feelings and go back to being friends with Sherlock always wondering if he could have had more. Or he can act like the man, like the solider he believes himself to be, and admit to Sherlock just how much he means to him; consequences be damned. An unwilling smile slowly spreads across his face; full of joy and hope.

"I…I don't deserve a friend like you, Mary." He tells her, meaning every word.

She reaches forward and cups his cheek tenderly.

"No…you don't." She agrees allowing a thumb to trace his cheekbones. An intimate act that they both know will never be repeated again.

He rises from his seat, leaving some money on the table to cover their bills and places a light kiss on her cheek.

"Thank you Mary". He says hoping she can tell how grateful he is to have her for a friend. She smiles wiping a small tear from the corner of her eye with her thumb and nods slightly.

"See you later, John. Let me know how it goes." She chuckles and waves him off as he crosses the street.

John can feel some of his earlier bravado leave him as he strides to his destination. Oh god, but he's…he's Sherlock… how the hell I am supposed to…but he stops himself there. He instead focuses about everything he feels towards Sherlock and the kiss they shared. There had been no mistaking the passion Sherlock had displayed. John had shared a few drunken kisses in his time, although none admittedly with any male friends, but they had never contained the same kind of fire that he had felt when Sherlock's lips had met his. He recalls the hands that had roamed over his body and the domineering nature of Sherlock's touch. Sucking bruises on his neck and hands pushing under his shirt to feel the skin there.

It is the first time he has allowed himself to think about the kiss and he can't deny the heat curling at the base of his stomach. He allows his imagination to go further, images of Sherlock naked and panting on his bed, a flush crawling up his pale skin. He wonders if Sherlock is proportionate to the rest of his body which causes John to flush, despite the cool air, at the thought of Sherlock hard and swollen against his muscled stomach. He wonders what it would be like to feel his naked body slide against Sherlock's, to taste him every inch of him and to feel him in…He fights down the arousal licking at his core and walks faster to their apartment.

Perhaps I should re-evaluate the 'whole-not gay' thing, he wonders, blushing furiously now. But an attractive woman with an ample cleavage on display walks by and attracts his attention. Maybe bisexual then? He shakes his head, knowing that the semantics didn't matter and smiles knowing that they really didn't. He ponders what he will say to Sherlock and decides that honesty is the best policy. He will just be upfront and hopes that he won't be horribly rejected by the end of it.

He pauses outside of his apartment door and takes a deep breath. His hand clenches around the door handle. He can feel his whole body tense and he is painfully aware of how wrong this can go. He might lose his one true friend forever. He might be rejected for Sherlock's work and be asked to leave the apartment. But he may also gain something so much more if he is willing to risk all those things. He knows that it won't be easy if he and Sherlock became a couple. Sherlock will most likely drive him crazy and there will be some difficult times ahead. But he knows it will never be dull with Sherlock around and he cannot imagine ever being without him. He's got his second chance and he is going to take it. With that resolve and his heart thundering in his chest; he steps inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock: *sighs* "I am here to request that you please leave comments for this fantastic story..."
> 
> John: "Sherlock...you don't have to be so sarcastic. It's a very good story."
> 
> ME: "Why, thank you John! And that's very kind of you Sherlock, asking all these lovely readers to leave me a review!"
> 
> Sherlock: *eye roll* "John, come. We're leaving.
> 
> John: "Sorry about him...But do leave her a review, it's only polite."
> 
> SO YOU HEARD THE MEN! BE NICE AND LEAVE ME A COMMENT! Heck, a word would suffice! Thanks for reading! :)
> 
> AN: In this Mary's dead fiancée is called Daniel if anyone can tell me other wise I shall be happy to alter it!


	13. How did we Miss this?

John takes in a deep breath of air and prays for some courage as he turns the door handle to their apartment. He finds Sherlock standing in the living room and smiling slightly moves to stand in front of him. Sherlock's arms are crossed, his striking features are cast in a warm, amber glow by the fire and his eyes are looking at a spot on the wall somewhere behind him.

John swallows heavily and takes a faltering step towards him.

"Sherlock…" He begins, his mouth is dry and he struggles to find the words to express how he feels, his throat constricting from the pressure of the step is about to take. From the change he is about to evoke. But Sherlock cuts him off, his voice deep and void of any emotion, like when he is analysing a case. It makes John feel cold and confused as to what could have caused this.

"You went to meet with Mary for date?" He says making the sentence sound like a question and a statement simultaneously as he often does.

"Yes, but we…" he starts, wondering why Sherlock has so suddenly started acting like this. He dares to hope that it may be out of jealously, taking courage from Mary's words he steps forward. Sherlock however spins gracefully on the spot and grabs his coat from his armchair swiftly interrupting him once again.

"Excellent. Well, you know how such details bore me, John. I'm going out." He states every monotone syllable cutting into John's resolve.

"Where are you going? We haven't got a case. I wanted to talk to you." He tries again.

Sherlock cannot bear to hear it. He doesn't want the typical apologetic speech of how they will still be friends. He had never thought he would be involved in this situation. But that is because he never thought he would have a friend like John. He never thought that his seemingly cold core could warm to another human being like it had with John. All he can feel is the chaotic flow of hormones in his body and an ache that persists within him no matter what he does to try to alleviate it. A wound of his mind rather than his body it would appear.

"I am not interested in talking about your love life, John." He snaps and buttons his coat with deft fingers. He doesn't look John in his face. He doesn't want to see the sympathy, pity and what he fears most of all; happiness.

John feels his mouth clench shut in frustration. Why is Sherlock avoiding him? He is about a minute away from tackling Sherlock to the floor just so he will look at him. He squeezes his fists tightly instead and stands defiantly in front of his tall friend not letting him pass.

"Sherlock, please, it's important…." He pleads needing to see those eyes look at him instead of vacantly staring at the wall over his left shoulder.

Sherlock ignores the encompassing urge to look John in the face but does not make to move past him.

"I'm a busy man, John. We can talk later." He says sternly. He pulls the scarf tightly around the collar of his neck causing the fabric to bite at the skin of this throat. He finds that the constriction is a wonderful distraction.

John moves closer still, until he is about an arm's length away from Sherlock, and reaches one hand up to loosen the tight knot of his scarf. The action causes Sherlock to finally look at him and John lets his arm drop uselessly by his side when he sees his face. Sherlock feels his resolve crumble, he hadn't thought of a plan to keep John, but seeing him now… He's looking up into his face, a defiant look on his face that is mixed with something that eerily looks like hope. He doesn't want to witness it. He's desperate now and before he can stop himself he speaks.

"I'll buy milk…" He tells John quietly, ducking his head, embarrassed by his pathetic display of bargaining. John feels his brain halt at the words. What?

"What?" He questions not realising he had verbalised his internal vocalisations until he hears his voice.

"I'll also endeavour not to leave dead body parts in the fridge anymore. I can freeze them at the morgue. It's less convenient but a practical alternative." He continues unable to stop if there is a chance that John wouldn't leave him for Mary. He needs just more time to convince John of his feelings.

"Huh?" John huffs out distracted by that last promise, it was quite disconcerting at times to open the fridge hoping for some dinner and to see a frozen head staring back at you. But that is Sherlock…

"I won't text you requesting something unless of course I am unable to do so or if the situation is life-threatening." He promises remembering all of John's voiced complaints of his habits although he wonders whether or not he will truly be able to carry out these promises.

John studies the man before him. He sees the nervous glance of Sherlock's eyes, the tense lines of his strong body and the frequent bobs of his Adam's apple. If he didn't know any better he would say Sherlock is nervous…maybe even scared. But of what? There are only a few occasions where he has seen Sherlock look like this and none of the outcomes were pleasant.

"As nice as it would be if once in a while you did buy some milk, I've gotten used to your…quirks. I might even be fond of some of them. But what has brought this on, Sherlock?" He asks smiling hoping to reassure him in some small manner and to discover the cause of Sherlock's odd behaviour.

Sherlock represses his amusement at John yet again placing milk of higher importance than dead body parts in the fridge. He decides that is now or never. Sherlock Holmes never shied away from adversity or pain. He will not do so today.

"Name your terms…" He asks with surprising calm lifting his head to look at John in his eyes. He watches the delicate skin crinkle at the corner of his eyes with confusion and concern.

"Terms?" John repeats pulling a nostalgically confused face at his words.

"I can only deduce from our…interaction…last night and your reaction to it. As well as your reluctance to be around me that you wish to do what most people find necessary when they feel as you do. Remove yourself from the situation and cease contact." He says leaving John to gawp helplessly as he continues. Is this really what Sherlock thinks?

"But I…I'm not most people, John. As I am sure you are aware. I won't apologise for last night because I find regrets to be meaningless. But I will try…to make life easier for you. I…Just don't leave. Please." He quietly begs letting his face show more emotion than he perhaps ever has.

John watches in fascination as the handsome features of Sherlock's face screw up with what only can be describe as sadness. As a plea for him to stay. He is overwhelmed by the reality that he is the reason that Sherlock is feeling this way. He cannot think of anything else to say except the truth.

"I am not going anywhere Sherlock." John tells him braving another step forward into his personal space.

Sherlock's brow wrinkles with puzzlement like he often does when human behaviour baffles him. "I assumed that you and Mary would be…"

But John cut's off his response.

"Mary and I aren't dating anymore." He tells him quietly, his voice steady and honest. Sherlock lets the information perforate his mind. John is no longer dating Mary. John is no longer dating Mary. John is free to date anyone. To love anyone. He lets his mind mull over that happy fact and belatedly realises that he has not replied to John who is watching him intensely.

"What is this all about Sherlock?" John asks in a low and thoughtful voice. He looks up at him the dim lighting of the room causing his blonde hair to glint and his eyes to look impossibly deep and dark.

"I… will you be returning to your own apartment?" Sherlock asks careful to keep his face as blank as possible. He needs to know that their kiss and John leaving Mary are connected. That John chose Sherlock and not what he fears, which is that John still wants to leave. That he just wants a fresh start.

John lets the shock he feels slide across his features before he looks down, the amber light casting shadows which dip into the contours of his face.

"Do you want me to leave?" He asks looking up with wide eyes that make him seem so much younger. Sherlock finds himself wondering what John had looked like in his youth. He realises that he wants to know everything about John. He wants to know everything there is to know. Things John can tell him and things he doesn't even know about himself that Sherlock will deduce and savour each secret knowing it is only his privilege.

"It's convenient having you around and I find your company…enjoyable" He tells him deflecting around the subject. After a lifetime of ignoring his emotions he finds that now he lacks the experience and courage to express himself the way he wishes.

John tries to stay calm looking right into the blank mask of Sherlock's face and ignores the urge to punch him. He understands that after years of identifying yourself as a high functioning sociopath would most likely mean you are inexperienced in most social situations. Especially situations that involve romantic feelings which may or may not exist. But John is reaching the end of his patience. If Sherlock isn't going to take the first step, then he will.

"Right…Right. You know what?! Sod it! I don't want to leave! I'm not moving out Sherlock. So I'm going to ask you again. Do you WANT me to leave? Not because I'm convenient or I relieve you of your boredom. Do you want me to stay?" He questions imploring Sherlock to just be direct and put him out of his misery. He hopes that kiss meant something; that they mean something.

Sherlock can feel the hope he had felt earlier return with a staggering force. Did John…

"Yes, more than anything." He answers with the kind of certainty he only feels after solving a case.

John lets out a sigh of relief and smiling looks him right in the eye with a fond, exasperated look.

"Then I'm not going anywhere."He promises.

Sherlock finds himself returning a small smile of his own. Now he had time to make John feel the same way. Without Mary in the picture he would be available to explore his sexual attraction to him.

"Thank you, John." He tells him knowing that his face has taken on a warm expression that he rarely ever expresses towards people.

John steadies his breath and tries not to panic at the genuinely happy expression on his face. He is terrified that he may be about to ruin everything in a single moment. But he has gotten this far and he isn't about to give up now.

"Alright. Good. So I have…err...something that I wanted to say…or ask really." He begins knowing that he is stumbling over his words like a blushing teenager.

Sherlock merely raises an eyebrow at him in question and watches the red flush creep up John's cheeks in fascination.

"I…think I may have developed feelings for you…" He rushes out hating the way he is trembling and his palms are sweaty. Sherlock feels as if he has surely misunderstood John.

"Developed feelings?" He repeats feeling like he is missing information about some sort of social scenario he has deleted because John can't surely mean…

"Yes, Sherlock. I've developed feelings and before you ask not 'feelings' that you have for friends. But more than that. I think…I think I've fallen in love with you." He confesses, hating how cheesy it must have sounded, but unable to really care at this moment. He can feel his heart thundering in his chest as he watches Sherlock absorb the information.

"I…right." Sherlock nods wondering if he is experiencing shock. His ability to process information has been drastically reduced and he finds he is lacking the ability to respond succinctly.

"Yep." John says smacking his lips together and banging the sides of his fists in front of him in an awkward gesture. Sherlock watches his nervous rocking on his heels and the words finally hit him. John has feelings for me…he loves me.

He suppresses an overwhelming urge to 'whoop' and start laughing hysterically.

"And what are you proposing we do about said feelings?" He asks feeling slightly cruel for prolonging his response but he needs John to be sure about what he wants.

"Well I was hoping, from the kiss, that they might be mutual." John replies now rubbing the back of his neck and staring hopefully at Sherlock.

"Yes." He replies resisting the urge to sweep him up and spin around the room. It is a completely irrational urge but one that is compelling. Must be the endorphins, he concludes mentally.

"Yes?" John repeats somewhat dumbly.

"Yes, they are mutual. I have felt this way for some time" Sherlock confirms, rolling his eyes when John raises his eyebrows in shock.

"Right, I…right. So where do we go from here?" John asks uncertainly.

"I was rather hoping you could tell me, re…ahem…relationships aren't exactly my area of expertise." Sherlock admits clasping his hands behind his back and rocking on his heels. He had underestimated how embarrassing such situations can be and feels his stomach flutter unpleasantly.

"Well, would you like to go on a date with me?" John asks his face splitting into a broad grin that Sherlock suspects is one of the reasons so many people are attracted to him.

"I thought the purpose of dates was to get to know the other person? We already know each other." Sherlock tells him as John shakes his head fondly wondering if he is quite prepared for he has signed up for.

"They are. But there is still a lot we don't know about each other…or rather I don't know about you. You've probably already deduced everything. But they are meant to be fun." He tells him chuckling slightly.

Sherlock contemplates his choices for a moment. He would be able to question John about his life before he met Sherlock, he would be able to see him laugh and smile again, a sight he had missed and perhaps most importantly it would make John happy. It isn't really a difficult decision.

"Very well. John, would you like to go on a date with me?" Sherlock asks his lip quirking up mischievously at one corner. John suppresses the urge to grin manically at how his evening has turned out.

The thought of being with Sherlock is so utterly overwhelming and yet the easiest thing in the world. He slowly reaches out one hand to Sherlock's scarf and uses it pull him down slightly. Sherlock allows himself to be pulled forward and jumps a little at the hand that tenderly touches his cheek. A thumb sweeps across his cheek bone and warm fingers splay across the rest of his cheek.

"I'd love to, Sherlock". John smiles warmly. He bites his lip in a nervous gesture as if he is unsure of what he is about to do so Sherlock decides for him. He closes the gap and presses his lips against John's. He senses are not dulled by alcohol this time and his brain is cataloguing everything it can about the kiss. It is tender and surprisingly gentle, a soft presses of warm lips and shared breaths. A confirmation of their feelings. He can feel John smile against his lips and feels his own stretch to mimic them.

"We're both bloody idiots. How we missed…this, I'll never know." John huffs out in disbelief resting his forehead against Sherlock's who finds that he is in complete agreement with his deduction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are probably lots of errors for which I hope you'll forgive me! Hate it, love it, like it? Let me know!


	14. The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is it guys! The smut boat has sailed and this is the end! Hope you have all enjoyed reading this as much as I have enjoyed writing it! :)
> 
> As usual any mistakes I make are mine and mine alone as I have no beta and all rights go to the BBC for the characters etc...because if I owned them...they would be doing naughty, fluffy things on TV

And that is how John and Sherlock end up sat in one of their favourite restaurants (or at least the one he had taken John to when they had met for the first time). John smiles faintly at the memory, Sherlock turning him down even though John had only asked out of curiosity…how things have changed. However their current situation is remarkably difficult, not because of the newly declared feelings between the two best friends but rather because of the awkward silence that has descended over their table.

John for the life of him cannot understand what the cause of the silence is. They had confessed their feelings and shared a kiss, which John believes, despite his lack of experience with other men, to be nothing other than perfect and yet there is silence. And it's not the kind of silence where John would be talking to Sherlock who would be essentially ignoring him but the awkward kind of silence that made his stomach churn.

He stares at the curls on Sherlock's head, hoping to hear that deep, rumbly voice or to suddenly develop telepathy. Anything. Anything at all, to fill the silence, because he sure as hell, had no idea what to say.

Sherlock catches occasional glances at his…lover? They hadn't actually gone that far yet. Friend? Far too basic a word… boyfriend…made him feel nauseous. He had been hoping for cues from John, or for him to take the lead. All the factors are in place…there is even a wretched candle on the table from the rather enthusiastic owner and yet it didn't feel right. Sherlock for once in his life had no idea of what to do.

John is feeling like an absolute plonker. Sherlock is as rigid as a board, eyes fixed on his face watching carefully. He's nervous.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?" He answers almost automatically, his eyes dart around the restaurant and the fork between his fingers twirls impatiently.

"How about we get our dinner to go?" he suggests leaning forward with his chin on one hand.

The relief that floods Sherlock's face is painfully evident.

"Excellent idea, John." He praises and snaps his fingers to grab the waiter's attention.

They leave the building, food in bags and start the walk back to the apartment.

It's Sherlock who breaks the silence first.

"Although my experience of such outings is obviously non-existent, I have to admit that was socially awkward even by my standards." Sherlock states with a wry smile causing John to let out a huff of laughter in agreement.

"Let's…never do that again. Alright?" John says and Sherlock nods but of course refuses to not understand all of the variables.

"Agreed. So what exactly was the cause of your awkwardness John?"

John flounders mentally at the statement.

"I… honestly? I have no idea what I'm doing either! I made it seem like going on a date was the next step, the normal progression but…well we've never really gone by the rulebook have we?" he grins up at his tall companion.

His statement earns a small quirk of the lips and he takes it as encouragement to go on.

"I have no idea how I am supposed to act around you. Do I flirt? Flatter? Seduce?" he questions almost forgetting that Sherlock was listening until he saw an eyebrow shoot rapidly up to the word 'seduce'.

"You're…You."

"I apologise." Sherlock interrupts dryly.

John lets out a huff of exasperation although he is unsure of its intended direction.

"I just mean…you are this utterly unique and amazing person. I felt blessed just being able to call you my friend…and since it was your first date I thought it should be special. And I failed spectacularly" he trails off, his face displaying how much the thought upsets him.

Sherlock watches him for a few seconds before swooping down and planting a kiss on John's soft lips, who looks at him with an expression caught between confusion and lust.

"It's curious how I feel exactly the same about you." He tells him, watching with pleasure as John's face begins to flush and he splutters slightly.

"I…ahem…right. Thanks. So what should we do? Maybe we should just do as we always do and see where it goes?" he suggests as they reach the door to their flat.

"Indeed, a natural observation."

They clamber their way up the stairs and John takes the bags to plate up the food.

"Alright then…how about we eat this and watch some telly? You can shout at it and I'll sit there pretending not to be amused." John says smiling, failing to stop the excited bounce of his heels as he makes his way to the kitchen.

Sherlock nods, unable to stop himself from smiling at his enthusiasm and plonks himself down on the sofa.

John brings the plates back handing one to him, looks at their armchairs and then back to where Sherlock has decided to sit and smiles.

He sits down, close to Sherlock, legs touching from knee to hip, trying in vain to ignore the heat from the other man and eat his food.

They eat in silence which is occasionally broken by a click of Sherlock's annoyed tongue or a short comment about the ridiculousness of the plotline. Once they have finished Sherlock turns his head slightly towards John and speaks, his breath warm on John's face.

"Do couples usually cuddle at his point?" John valiantly ignores the way his heart thumps at the word 'couples'. His mind flashes back to the heated conversation with Irene Adler and he thinks about how right she had been. He tilts his head and answers carefully.

"Depends, do you want to?"

"I find myself intrigued by the notion."

John tentatively takes Sherlock's hand, interlacing their fingers. Usually he would put his arm around whatever girl he was with and allow them to rest on his chest but that didn't feel right.

"This alright?" he asks tentatively squeezing his fingers.

Sherlock simply nods, his attention caught by where their hands are connected.

"Strange but not unpleasant" he states categorising the sensation of their skin touching.

"How long to we do this for?" He asks, wanting to collate as much data as possible since he would be using it in future.

John smiles warmly "As long as you want to".

Sherlock removes hand and John feels his stomach drop in disappointment only to find his palm being turned over and have Sherlock's slide his over the top. He had a feeling that most of their future interactions would involve Sherlock trying to take charge…

"It makes more sense since my hand is bigger." Sherlock states at John's bemused eyebrow.

He can't resist the urge to refute him despite the fact the Sherlock is always right. He probably knows the exact measurements… he thinks.

"No they aren't its just your stupidly long fingers…" he argues, half teasing half determined not to be smaller in every department…get your mind out of the gutter, John…

He grabs Sherlock's palms and pushes them together. Sherlock's fingers are long and refined. Powerful hands covered in pale and clean skin. It reminded him of marble.

John's hands are strong; his palms are sturdy and thick. His fingers are shorter than Sherlock's but no less elegant despite their blunt tips

"Your fingers are rather refined" Sherlock comments taking John's hand in between his own, dwarfing it and pulling it close to his face.

"I am a doctor." John murmurs his focus almost completely on the heat from Sherlock's hands and the scrutiny of that piercing blue gaze.

"Hmm..." Sherlock hums noncommittally and continues to study his hand observing everything he can. As natural to him as taking a breath.

He notices the faint writing lump on John's ring finger on his left hand from where he rests his pen. The faint scars above his thumb, no doubt from when he was first learning to use a gun. His grip would have been just a little too high, catching the skin as he pulled the trigger. He could analyse for hours, cataloguing his own private mind palace devoted entirely to John.

It was John's voice that broke him out of his reverie, low and faintly embarrassed.

"Not going to have any secrets left, if you keep staring at my hand like that."

Sherlock's locks his gaze onto John's.

"Problem?"

"No…no" John replies a little too quickly, his pupils are dilated and his breathing is a little quick. Arousal.

"I just hope you're not going to study the rest of me like that." He laughs slightly before clearing his throat as if just realising the implications of what he has said.

Sherlock shifts a little closer; pleasantly pleased by the physical reactions he is provoking.

"And what if I intend to do just that?" he asks, his voice a low, sultry rumble in his chest. He is stepping into territory that neither of them had yet dared enter. He had used to belittle the physicality and chemical impulses that feelings like attraction and love inflicted upon a person. However now he finds it is more intoxicating than any drug he has ever taken. An addiction that one drunken kiss has left him craving.

John swallows, his dry throat clicks audibly, his palms sweat and his jeans become just a little uncomfortable.

He shifts in his seat and lets his eyes dart around the room, letting out a nervous chuckle in an attempt to break the atmosphere.

"I…err really? I wouldn't want to disappoint, I'm no statue of David…"

Sherlock watches John, the uncomfortable set of his shoulders, the way he absently rubs at his shoulder and cannot fathom his reasoning.

"Fascinating…you've had many girlfriends John. I've never seen you lack confidence when you were with them" he comments.

"Yes…well. You are…" John sticks a hand out and waves it up and down Sherlock's body as if words were not enough to encompass everything he had to say.

Sherlock gives John a fond if slightly exasperated look.

"That doesn't really count as an answer, John."

"Well it's as much of one as you are getting" John says, crossing his arms looking rather miffed, although strangely enough more at himself than at Sherlock.

Sherlock takes a moment to ponder and then it clicks…

"You're doing the face. You know I hate the face" John tells him in an irritated voice, Sherlock resists the urge to comment on the way John is practically pouting.

"I would have thought from the kiss that you would have realised how much you arouse me." Sherlock states calmly moving slowly on the sofa towards John. He is on all fours, every move calculated and predatory.

John, ironically, is doing a marvellous impression of a deer caught in headlights.

"What? I… that wasn't…What are you doing?" he asks stuttering when he finds himself somehow pressed against the corner of the sofa with a determined Sherlock looming over him.

"Seducing you…" Sherlock informs him before crushing his lips against John's in way he has been wanting to for so long. John responds fervently tilting his head back and pushing his hands through curly locks to angle his head better. Their tongues move eagerly against one another's, hot breathy caresses that rip low groans from John and a veritable growl from Sherlock. John pushes a hand under Sherlock's shirt, revelling in the hard muscle he finds and the very fact that he is allowed to do this.

He pulls away and locks his eyes onto Sherlock's face which is looking thoroughly wanton. Curls everywhere, lips red and swollen and eyes dark with want.

"Bed" he orders causing Sherlock to smile broadly and take his hand as he leads the way upstairs. He can feel his heart thudding in his chest and they barely make it up the stairs before John is slamming Sherlock into the door of his room. John kisses him thoroughly before sucking and biting eagerly at the thick expanse of his long, pale neck ripping small gasps from the taller man.

Sherlock manages to get the door open despite John's distraction and pulls him inside. He all but rips his shirt off his back and moves in to kiss John again who has become rather preoccupied with the sight of a shirtless Sherlock.

The kiss has become almost desperate hands roaming all of each other. John's jumper and shirt is practically ripped off him and Sherlock immediately moves to kiss John's scar, his lips moving almost reverently over the marred skin. The act rips a broken gasp from John who takes his face between his hands and kisses him desperately.

They fall on the bed shamelessly rutting and grinding against each other, all former embarrassment and anxiety forgotten. John quickly divests Sherlock of his trousers and underwear; grasping firmly at his cock making his hips drive forward helplessly.

Sherlock props himself over John, elbows bracketing on either side of his face, hips thrusting into the tightness of his palm, placing wet open kisses over John's body.

The swell of pleasure is devastatingly overwhelming and he growls and pulls John's hand away, holding both hands above his hand, not wanting to find his release quite so soon. John gasps in shock, the muscles of his upper body flexing and contracting as he tries to catch his breath and move against his tight grip.

Sherlock lowers his head and catches a nipple between his teeth sucking and grazing the sensitive skin making John buck and grind his hips. He pushes his hands that are holding John firmly down before releasing them, a silent message for them to stay where they are as he makes his way down his body.

He kisses his way down John's torso, biting and sucking the skin he finds, ripping sounds from John's throat he had never imagined he could make. He makes quick work of his trousers and underwear and stares at the sight before him. His hair is darker here but still blonde, he is just bigger than average, not quite Sherlock's length but with a bigger girth It is thick and looked painfully hard making his own member twitch in sympathy.

John's voice is completely wrecked when he speaks "Sherlock…you remember what I said about the studying…".

Sherlock flickers his eyes up to him and takes in his muscular, tanned skin against pale sheets. His mussed blonde hair, hands gripping tightly at the pillow under his head and the minute twitches of his hips. To Sherlock he has never seen a more beautiful sight. The instinct to take, possess and make John writhe with pleasure is overwhelming.

"Perfectly. As I am sure you remember my reply…" he rumbles before pushing his lips over John's cock and sucking him down. John lets out a muffled shout, his face turned into the pillow, thrusting shallowly into his mouth. He pulls back letting his tongue trace the underside of the vein and tastes the beads of precum gathering at the head. He had thought he would have found the taste unpleasant but the sounds John is making make him eagerly swallow him up again. His cheeks are hollowed as he sucks, letting his tongue lap and swirl at the end whilst clever fingers caressing his balls and pressing against the puckered skin he finds when he moves his hand lower.

He feels, more than hears the gasp that John sucks in and it is enough to make Sherlock lift his head.

"You…do you want…?" John sputters out, overwhelmed not only by the sensations but the idea that he is willing to do what had never entered his mind before.

"Only if you do" Sherlock replies honestly. John flushes sitting up fishing around the draw, pushing the tube into his hand before flopping back down.

"I've never…" he starts biting his lip to stop himself from finishing the sentence.

Sherlock moves up the bed kissing him soundly and presses the full length of his naked body onto John's letting his hands roam over his back. He lets his hands wander down further, cupping and squeezing his firm cheeks ripping a moan from Sherlock.

"You sure?" he asks willing to trade places if John is uncertain. Their noses are touching, breathes are mingling and John lets one hand trace the contours of his face in a gesture that could only be described as loving. The other hand slaps his arse sharply and teeth nip gently at his bottom lip. The pain that flares in arse sends tingles up his spine and makes him grind his cock against John's.

"Get on with it" he orders, grinning. Sherlock smirks and flips John over whispering hotly in his ear.

"Yes, Sir…".

He makes his way down his back, sucking on the knobs of his spine and when he reaches the base of John's arse he takes a moment to admire the sight.

"Oi…"

Sherlock chuckles and wasting no time he pulls the cheeks apart letting his tongue tracing the sensitive skin between them.

John bucks and moans into his pillow, he had never tried this with anyone before, the feeling of being so exposed is terrifying and arousing simultaneously. He pushes back into Sherlock's clever tongue revelling in the feeling of flat swipes and wet intrusions. Suddenly he feels the slick, cool breach of a finger and tenses slightly at the foreign feeling.

Sensing his discomfort Sherlock winds a hand underneath him and strokes at his member causing a clash of pleasure and pain. A second finger is added pumping in and out steadily of his unused hole. The burn and stretch an uncomfortable but not unpleasant feeling. John feels the pain dwindle into something akin to pleasure as Sherlock keeps brushing against something that makes him groan low into his pillow and push his hips back.

"Sherlock…" he says a little ashamed of the need that colours his voice.

Sherlock's patience finally snaps at hearing the quiet, desperate utterance of his name. He slicks himself up and locks eyes with John who has his head turned over his shoulder.

"Condom?"

"I'm clean" he says watching John nod, his eyes flickering nervously towards the hand that is still on his cock, slippery and dripping with lube.

"Me too".

John turns onto his back and reaches out to pull Sherlock onto him, his smile wide and happy. Sherlock grasps his hips and lifts him up off the bed before pressing in slowly but steadily. John gasps up into Sherlock's mouth at the intrusion, feeling the intense heat and stretch to accommodate him. There is no way he is going to fit…

He keeps kissing him and breathing shakily before their hips finally meet in a sweet press. John has never felt so connected with another person before. Sherlock's piercing gaze never leaves his face as he begins to push shallow thrusts into him. He pushes his hips up, that are still in Sherlock's strong grip, and moans loudly as pain evolves into pleasure.

Sherlock stills "Are you alright?" he asks worried he may have moved too soon but John just shakes his head and grabs his arse to push him deeper.

"More" he gasps in a broken demand.

Sherlock shudders at the tightness and heat around his cock and thrusts deep into John. Both their moans become increasingly loud and their bodies move frantically. Sherlock's thrusts no longer slow slam into him, driving into John who meets him with just as much need and power. Hips snapping and grinding together and with a final deep thrust John cries out coming between their bodies, painting their stomachs and chests. The way John clamps around Sherlock leaves him helpless to the intensity of the pleasure, spilling himself into John muffling his cry against his lips.

He collapses onto the sweat slicked body beneath him and finds that for once in his life, he is unable to navigate the pleasure-filled fog in his mind and create a coherent thought. A hand absently caresses through his hair travelling down the length of his spine and he feels completely at peace.

Eventually he has enough strength to prop himself up and look at John. John smiles up at him; eyes watering slightly, as his hands never stop touching his skin.

"What is it?" Sherlock questions a sickening feeling churning his stomach.

John huffs scrubbing at his eyes looking decidedly annoyed at the tears on his face.

"I just can't believe you're here…I spent so long hoping you would come back and I never thought you would. And now here you are…not just alive but with me. And…I can't lose you again" he whispers fiercely, his teeth gritted and the hand in his hair gripping just shy of uncomfortable.

Sherlock felt his throat tighten and he swallows heavily.

"You won't." he promises unable to voice how much it would break him if he lost John. How he would feel if the positions had been reversed. Love he realises is both a blessing and a curse. He silently vows to do everything in his power to prevent John from experiencing the pain that love can bring for a second time.

He presses his forehead against John's feeling dampness on his face unsure if it was his or John's. He presses a gentle kiss to his lips and whispers against their softness.

"You won't. I'm afraid you are stuck with me" he adds in mock horror.

John smiles through his tears, looking so completely beautiful, he is thoroughly kissed again.

"Good." He smiles letting his hands trail lightly over Sherlock's backside, causing shudders in the taller man.

"Once I've recovered I'm going to show you the wonders of prostate stimulation" he promises sleepily affirming it with a squeeze of his cheeks and a slap.

"I have no doubt in your skills, Doctor Watson". He chuckles nuzzling into his neck and murmuring a soft phrase that John is almost sure he had imagined it.

"What?"

Sherlock lifts his head looking flushed and decidedly annoyed.

"I said…I love you" he almost snaps, evidently embarrassed at having to repeat the words. John laughs ecstatic at hearing the words for the first time and tackles him ignoring twinge low in his body, manoeuvring him into a spooning position mouthing at his neck.

"Haha...wasn't so hard was it?" he teases, tightening his arm around Sherlock's waist.

"John…" Sherlock says with a voice that promised retribution if he continued to tease him.

So instead he smiles into the base of Sherlock's neck and mouths the words quietly back.

"I love you too".

Sherlock's hand entwines with his own in answer and he presses himself back firmly into John. The presence of Sherlock's warm body promises to keep his nightmares at bay as he begins to drift off and the steady beat of his heart against his chest, proof that he is alive and that he will never have to lose him like that again if he can prevent it.

The Waiting game is over. Sherlock is home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *SOBS* So that's it! My muses returned for one last bout of Johnlock before leaving me malnourished and sleep deprived! I hope you have enjoyed reading this as much as I have writing it! Please leave a review, let me know what you think!


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